Kiss it and Make it Better
by cumberpatchcats
Summary: John is a normal pre-med student who wears ugly sweaters. Sherlock is an anti-social genius with a disputable past who seems like he doesn't even want to be here. John is quite set on changing that. (University AU-recreational drug use, abusive relationships, implied rape)
1. Chapter 1

_John is a pre-med student in love with university life who wears ugly sweaters. Sherlock seems like he doesn't even want to be here. John is quit set on changing that._

John Watson wakes up particularly early today again. His alarm hadn't gone off and the sun is in its early morning rising, steadily embracing the earth with a soft, warm autumn glow. His roommate Mike is still asleep in the bed on the opposite side of the room, and most likely would still be sleeping for the next few hours.

On the days where John wakes up early, he enjoys going out for coffee, because cafes will always have better coffee than those instant crap packages he usually drinks. There's a café on the opposite side of the campus, a real honest-to-god hipster café like in the movies, and John really doesn't like to associate with hipsters but damn if their coffee isn't the best on the planet.

So he slips on a blue striped sweater (it's not ugly no matter what Mike says) because despite the warmth of the sun it's October and still fairly chilly, and sets off, careful not to disturb his sleeping roommate.

* * *

"Medium sized coffee, milk, no sugar, whipped cream, and uh…" John eyes the display case carefully. "Oh, and a strawberry Danish."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Jesus Christ!" The sudden deep voice from behind him startles John and he nearly jumps out of his skin. He drops the change in his hand and scrambles to pick it up and hand it to the cashier. How embarrassing. He snaps his head around to face a tall, dark haired man that, despite being so thin he might break in half if someone ran into him, looked so menacingly intimidating with his high cheekbones and that intellectual "I'm better than you and I know it" smirk playing across nearly perfectly shaped pink lips.

The man stares at him completely shamelessly, and gives a little shrug. "I'm just saying those pastries are quite calorie-packed, is all, and you look like you could do without."

John is actually quite shocked. Appalled, even. "Are you calling me fat?"

"On the contrary," is the other man's response. John takes note of just how impossibly deep that voice really is. "Your body type is rather aesthetically pleasing. I'd just not suggest eating pastries packed with fat every day can cause problems in the long run."

John snorts. "I do not eat pastries every day."

"No, I'd say thrice a week."

"Are you stalking me?"

Curly hair raises an eyebrow like John's question is absurd. "How rude. I've merely made an observation. The way you place your order without hesitation indicates you are a regular customer. When your eyes scanned the display case, they immediately locked with the Danishes, like you knew exactly where they were. I'd suggest you visited every day, but the way you were licking your lips and so obviously salivating at the thought of eating the delicacy shows you have yet to become accustomed to its taste, so I've settled on thrice a week."

John just sort of blinks, jaw gaped wide open in absolute astonishment. The man doesn't even seem that proud of himself after making such a wildly accurate assumption. "Blimey," John whistles. "Who the hell are you?"

"Sherlock Holmes," he says blatantly. And with that, Sherlock turns his attention to the cashier in front of him and places an order. "Coffee. Black. Two sugars."

John and Sherlock receive their orders at around the same time. John takes his cup of coffee and his pastry-albeit he's a bit reluctant to eat it now- and he's about to leave when he hears that deep voice next to him.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Excuse me?" John asks, turning towards the voice for the second time that morning.

"Your father. Is he in Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John shakes his head in disbelief. "How…?"

Sherlock shrugs. "You obviously come from a military family. Your hair is cut short and your posture is perfectly erect. Your face is a few years ahead of your age, most likely due to the stress of moving around so many times during your childhood."

"Are you calling me ugly?"

"On the contrary," Sherlock assures him. "I quite rather appreciate aged faces."

"Oh," John says, perhaps stammering a bit. "Uh, thank you, I suppose."

There's a bit of silence, probably more awkward for John than it is for Sherlock, and then John turns to finally leave.

"How long has your sister been an alcoholic?"

John spins around on his heels to stare wide-eyed at Sherlock, whose face seems to be completely indifferent.

"Your phone," Sherlock explains. "Sticking out of your back pocket. I can tell by the charger."

"Don't say another word," John snaps.

"By your defensiveness towards the subject, and I to believe she's not yet in rehabilitation? Or perhaps she has been, and failed?"

"Shut up."

"Does your father know, or is it a harbored family secret?"

John takes an angry step towards Sherlock, steam practically hissing from his ears. He points his coffee towards the man and shouts out, for the entire café to hear, "Don't you dare invade my life like that. You have no right to go around researching me."

"I didn't research, I observed."

"Bullshit," John snaps. "You, Sherlock Holmes, are a lying, insufferable bastard, I hope you realize this." And with that, he clicks his heels together and storms away, one hand tightly wrapped around his coffee and the other clenched in a fist so hard his knuckles begin to lose its color.

* * *

And yet despite the blatant invasion of his privacy, John can't stop wondering about Sherlock Holmes. Although there was a part of him that wanted to believe his outstanding deductions were all faked, there was a part of him that knew that faking a talent like that was stupid and worthless, and therefore must be real.

After his anatomy class, he joined his selective group of friends for lunch. It wasn't that John wasn't popular. He certainly wasn't an outcast, of course, rather normal, and he had a fair share of acquaintances, but he rarely considered someone a true friend until he was absolutely sure he could trust him.

"I met this horrible excuse for a human being this morning," John remarks, twirling a fork around a plate of Asian noodles.

"The prime minister?" Sarah asks, most obviously jokingly.

"Ssssh," Clara giggles. "The government's got all sorts of hidden cameras all over the country. If they catch you talking like that you'll be beheaded."

"They won't behead you," Mike argues. "You'll probably just rot in jail for the rest of your life."

John rolls his eyes. "Hello, does anyone actually care about my traumatic coffee shop experience?"

Sarah clears her throat. "Yes, sorry John, please continue on. Who was it that you have deemed an inhumane atrocity?"

"Sherlock Holmes," John says, the name rolling smoothly off his tongue like it was meant to be spoken by him and him alone.

Immediately, Mike and Sarah suck in a huge breath. "Oooh," they say simultaneously.

John is confused. "Oh my god, you know him?" And Clara just looks around like she had just woken up fifty years in the future.

Mike slowly nods. "Indirectly, of course. He's a chemistry major. He's a bit infamous around the science department, that's how Sarah knows, and I'm surprised you don't, since you and Sarah both are pre-med. I only know through my mate Greg Lestrade." Lestrade, John thinks to himself, son of a pretty important officer at Scotland Yard. "Apparently Greg is the closest thing Sherlock has to a friend."

John snorts as he takes a sip of water. "I wonder why. Bit of an egocentric douche, wouldn't you say?"

Sarah groans. "A bit? Why, I heard that in his freshman year he deduced that his math professor was having an affair with a professor over in the humanities department and made the both of them quit in shame."

"Sounds like him," John nods.

"Huge prude too, that one," Sarah continues. "He seems completely indifferent to any sort of relationship. I think he's asexual or something like that."

"Really?" Mike chimes in. "That's not what I've heard."

John raises an eyebrow. "Oh? And what have you heard?"

Mike looks around cautiously, like he's afraid someone is listening in, before he leans forward and whispers to the table "Rumor has it he's a queer. Supposedly got himself into an abusive relationship in secondary school with some bloke. That only probably turned him off from people entirely. Lestrade refuses to comment on it, but he doesn't exactly deny it either."

John blinks, perhaps a bit shocked. The Sherlock he had met seemed so high and mighty, he never would have guessed any sort of abusive past. Then again, John isn't too big on deductive reasoning.

"Massive genius, though," Sarah says. "I had a lecture class with him freshmen year. I swear he knew more than the professor himself. Certainly didn't hesitate in correcting the poor man every chance he got. He's an odd one, really. Apparently he hasn't got a roommate. Rumor has it he's scared off everyone who's tried rooming with him. I can't imagine why, unless he's got something repulsive like heads in the fridge."

"Oh, you remember that one year when that girl was killed right here on campus?" Mike asks.

John recalls that vividly. He was still in year ten when that happened. A terrible tragedy. A young girl at uni struck dead without a single bit of evidence left behind. The scene had nearly put off John from even applying to the university in the first place.

"Well, apparently Holmes helped the police solve that case," Mike continues.

"Bullshit!" John gasps. "He's our age! They wouldn't let a kid onto a crime scene!"

"Sure they would, if he's got connections. I heard he's best buddies with Scotland Yard itself. Either that or someone in his family is a pretty big deal in the government."

"I heard he's a druggie," Sarah comments. "Although don't take my word for it. He seems like he would, though. No one else can be that impossibly thin without help."

"Sorry I asked," John said, all the shocking information practically drowning him from the inside out. He checked his watch, realized that his next class was about to begin, and bade goodbye to his friends before leaving the cafeteria.

It wasn't a very far walk to the building where his next class was, but it still gave him ample time to think about Sherlock Holmes. Everything seemed outrageous, and he was sure half of all those rumors weren't even true, but when he really thought hard about it, it all actually made sense.

Was Sherlock Holmes even human?


	2. Chapter 2

For two years, John hadn't known Sherlock even existed.

Suddenly, John was aware that Sherlock had more of a presence in his life than he had thought.

For instance, when John filed in to his general biology lecture about a week later, within the massive crowd of nearly a hundred students, his eyes locked straight onto a mop of dark curls attached to a slim body covered in the finest of silk towards the back of the lecture hall.

Once in a while, John would spot the antisocial man around the campus. Walking to his next class, maybe. Sitting on a bench. Lying down on a patch of grass near the front gate of the university, holding a book above his head. A book that John could have sworn was a straight up chemistry textbook, like Sherlock was just reading it for leisure.

John went on with his life. He attended classes, hung out with his mates, crammed for mid-terms, and passed out on the floor of Sarah and Clara's dorm after a near all-nighter of studying. He lived off of outdated sandwich bread and instant noodles and called home once a week. A typical college student. John liked it, the mundane life he had. After the chaotic swarm of Harriet's addiction and the toll it had on his family, the dull was extremely refreshing.

"John, let's go to a party," Sarah whines, clinging to his arm like she was trying to cut off his circulation.

John didn't do parties often, and Sarah knew this. There was very little appeal in dancing around fifty thousand drunkards and getting unwillingly groped at all sorts of angles. "I'd rather not," John tells her.

"Come on," she pouts, and John rolls his eyes at her. "It'll be fun. It's a small party anyways."

"And what in your mind constitutes as a small party?"

"There won't be any more than a couple hundred people," Sarah explains, as if that's supposed to make him change his mind.

John laughs rudely at her. "Oh, only."

"Come on John, all we've been doing is studying, dammit. You need to go out and get so drunk you piss yourself."

John winces. "Not my idea of a good time."

"Come with me."

"No."

"Please?"

"Sarah."

"I'll shave your head in your sleep."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Wouldn't I?"

And so here John is, in some odd building on a part of campus he didn't even know had existed, shoulder to shoulder with hot, sweaty strangers. He's had to dodge twice this evening to avoid some drunk from vomiting all over his shoes. Sarah's long gone and left him to dance with some hipster from the art department. Said he was romantic or some crap like that.

The music is disgustingly loud. It always is. John never understood the reasoning behind that, since all it did was cause premature deafness, really. He takes a swig of beer and downs it down like he's being held at gunpoint. He has to admit, whoever this host is, he has a damned refined taste in alcoholic beverages.

A blonde grabs him by the wrist. "Let's dance," she commands, her overall facial structure pretty attractive but her eyes caked with eyeliner. John politely refuses and watches her walk away like she's actually offended.

And that's when John spots him. Sitting on a couch on the opposite side of the room, book in hand and not partaking in any sort of conversation, is the infamous Sherlock Holmes. John hesitates a bit, wanting to walk up to him and say something-anything-confirm the rumors, ask his favorite color, talk science, anything-but then he remembers Sherlock's rude outburst when he invaded the privacy of John's life, and how much of a pretentious dick he was. And if it's one thing John hates, it's pretentious dicks.

John takes another sip of beer and stares at the man from across the room. Sherlock is not ugly. Quite the opposite, in fact. John watches Sherlock stick his tongue out and wet his lips thoughtfully, the tip of his tongue brushing against the perfect cupid's bow of his upper lip. The curls on his head are unusually unruly, and his body is just so damn thin. He's dressed in a deep purple V-neck and a pair of slim dark wash jeans, a rather simple outfit yet on him it just adds a strange sense of elegance. As John drinks his alcohol, he finds himself slowly navigating towards him.

Sherlock doesn't look up when John approaches him, but it seems like he senses John's presence anyways.

"I never took you for the party type," John has to yell over the music.

Sherlock turns the page in his book, and John can confirm that yes, he is reading a chemistry textbook. "I'm not. I don't like to associate myself with low-intellectual gatherings. Especially not when they're hosted by Anderson." At just the deliberate emphasis of Anderson's name, John can hear the hatred in Sherlock's voice. "I'd much rather be in my dormitory safe from these disease-ridden maggots you lot call party people. This is all Lestrade's doing. He said something about me needing social interaction?"

John laughs and takes another sip of beer. "Well, he's not wrong. Don't think a party like this is the way to go about socially interacting. Especially not for your kind."

"My kind?" This time, Sherlock looks up to stare at John questionably.

John shrugs. "Wacked out genius type. That's how all geniuses are."

"I'm not a genius," Sherlock points out. "Geniuses don't exist, and even if they did, I wouldn't be one." He shuts his chemistry textbook and John has to wonder if he actually used a bookmark or if he just didn't care. "The level you people associate with genius is not hard to achieve."

"Well yeah, not to a genius," John snorts.

"You people just don't know how to observe."

John frowns. "You calling me stupid?"

"Perhaps."

At this, John begins to fume. "Ah yes, Sherlock Holmes, genius extraordinaire, much too good to converse with us normal folk."

"I'm conversing with you, aren't I?"

John shuts his mouth because he can't argue with fact. And then he laughs. "I hate you," he says blatantly. "I really, really hate you."

Sherlock seems unfazed by this epiphany. "How predictable."

"No wonder you've got no friends."

"I've got no need."

"You're an arsehole."

"I've been told."

The monotone of Sherlock's voice is actually starting to piss John off. He finishes his beer and points a finger at Sherlock accusingly. "One day, one day mister Sherlock Holmes, I'm going to wipe that pretentious egotistical attitude off your face and make you eat it."

"Go ahead," is Sherlock's acceptance of the challenge.

And with that, John vomits all over Sherlock's shoes.

* * *

When John awakes, it's only because of his alarm clock blaring in his ears. He groans and rolls of his bed, realizing that there's a dull pain banging at his head.

"Morning, sunshine," comes the familiar voice of Mike, who seems quite amused.

"The fuck happened?" John slurs, much too tired to form perfectly coherent sentences.

Mike hands him a cup of instant coffee-all cream and no sugar-and crouches beside him. "Don't you remember? You got drunk and threw up on Sherlock Holmes's expensive five thousand pound shoes. He sacked you in the face, took you home, and the two of you had a massive shag."

"Fuck you," John hisses, gratefully taking the coffee and sipping it no matter the fact that it burns his tongue. "What really happened?"

"I just told you."

John gives him that don't-fuck-with-me-I-know-where-you-live look and Mike laughs. "Oh all right, everything's false. Well, almost everything. You threw up on his shoes, and he did take you home."

John immediately scrambles to sit up. "What?!"

Mike nods at him. "Sherlock knocked on the door some time after midnight and when I opened it, there you two were, you slumped around Sherlock's shoulder and poor Sherlock struggling to hold you up because he probably weights less than Kate Middleton. He practically threw you at me and snarled that you now owe him a pair of shoes and that was that."

"How kind," John says sarcastically.

Mike shrugs. "It was quite shocking, actually. Unusual behavior, never would have expected that from him. He could have just left you passed out on the floor for the world to step on. Maybe this is as far as his kindness extends. You should be lucky he even let you touch him, unconscious or not."

John lets out a short, unamused laugh. "Oh yes, lucky me. The recipient of Sherlock's undying kindness."

Mike reaches out an arm for John to take and helps to pull him back onto his feet. "If I didn't know any better I'd say he's infatuated."

John rolls his eyes. "I don't think anything could interest that jerk."


	3. Chapter 3

When John spots Sherlock in the coffee shop early one morning, he helps himself to the seat across from him.

Sherlock, a cup of coffee resting on the table and a new book opened, lifts his head to look John in the eye as if he's confused. He cocks his head to the side. "Who gave you permission to sit there?"

John's response is to take a sip of his coffee. "Who said I couldn't?"

Sherlock blinks a couple times before setting his textbook down onto the table. "Look, I don't know if you've noticed, but I tend not to engage in social situations. There's a reason for that, and it would be in your best interest not to get involved with me." With that said, he stands up, takes his items, and throws his unfinished coffee into the bin before walking away without so much of a look back.

From then on, John decides to take up that challenge of introducing Sherlock to the world of social interaction. It just isn't human to want to be alone, is all.

There weren't many times John could even see Sherlock during the day, much less approach him. On Wednesday he had his general biology lecture and made a big show out of walking straight up to Sherlock at the back of the room and sitting down right next to him. John could feel all eyes on him, and he smirked back like he knew what he was doing. Sherlock rolled his eyes at him and kept his back turned away from John for a good part of the lecture.

"I bet you know all this already," John says.

Sherlock doesn't answer.

"This class must be a waste of time or something."

Still no answer.

"Why are you even here then? Oh, I've got it, someone's behind the scenes demanding your attendance, is that it?"

Silence.

"Or maybe you're shagging the professor."

No response. John sighs. It's like talking to a wall, really. A very thin, curly haired wall, with the most long and gorgeously slender neck ever…wait, what?

One day, John catches the infamous Sherlock Holmes sitting all alone on a bench, of course, reading a textbook. John takes the liberty to slide in to the seat beside him. He doesn't have another class all afternoon, after all, and he's got time to spare before Sarah drags him out shopping later this evening.

Sherlock is reading a textbook on radium physics today, a branch of science that really just flies right over John's head. He faces Sherlock and asks, "do you ever read for fun?"

"This is fun," is Sherlock's cold answer.

"No I mean like, do you ever read books meant for entertainment? The classics? The Bestsellers?"

"Literature bores me," Sherlock says bluntly.

"Oh." John nods. It makes sense to him now why Sherlock had dismissed his mandatory literature professor in that manner back in freshman year. He didn't understand how something like radium physics was more entertaining than Mark Twain, but he had long given up on trying to understand how Sherlock's peculiar little head worked. "Not even Shakespeare? You seem like a Shakespeare kind of guy."

"Who?"

John's eyes grow wide, nearly bulging out of his head. "You're joking, right? Absolutely joking?"

Sherlock puts his book down to look at John curiously. "No."

John then gives out a short laugh. "Oh my god, you're joking, this is a joke. How the hell do you live like what, twenty years of your life not knowing who Shakespeare is?"

"If I don't care, I don't know it," Sherlock says.

"Bollocks."

"No, really," Sherlock begins to explain. "Why bother my mind with useless facts? The brain is an attic, and once it becomes much too cluttered, it only makes sense to do away with the useless and outdated."

John snorts. "People can't just do that."

"Can't they?"

"You're ridiculous."

He actually has to do a double-take because he swears he just saw Sherlock crack the slightest bit of a smile.

Sherlock stand up just then, now that the conversation is just about over, and is perfectly intent on leaving, when John grabs his wrist. "Wait, Sherlock, just um…" he hesitates, not exactly sure where he was going with his sentence. He can feel Sherlock's angular, bony wrist beneath his fingers, and perhaps tightens his grip. "There's another party this Saturday. Come with me, and I swear I won't vomit over anything you own."

Sherlock presses his lips into a tight line. "I thought I've made this perfectly clear. Don't get involved with me. It will only ruin you."

And with that, he breaks free of Sherlock's grasp and walks away in the most dignified manner.

* * *

"Good lord, John," Mike laughs. "You're absolutely pulling our legs."

"I'm not," John insists, stabbing a fork into his meal. "He really doesn't know who Shakespeare is."

They all engage in a fit of laughter. "Is that man even human?" Clara asks, now officially the one who knows Sherlock the least. She's studying in the art department all the way across campus, so she's never even gotten the chance to look at Sherlock, besides that one party the other day, in which case she was probably too sloshed up to get a good look anyways.

"I seriously doubt it," Mike says.

"Oh, maybe he's some sort of android. You know, one of those shady experiments they have down at the Baskerville building, you know, the one right next to lecture hall where the creepiest science majors partake in illegal labwork or something," Sarah says.

John waves his hand. "That's all speculation. I've been in the Baskerville building. Had a class there one semester, I never heard anybody shrieking in pain."

"Of course they won't do it in broad daylight, stupid," Sarah says, rolling her eyes.

"Maybe he's a government spy," Mike chimes in. "And that's why he's not allowed to interact with anyone. Otherwise he'll blow his cover. John, you're wading into deep water trying to befriend this bloke. He'll come into our room and slit both our throats if you get too close."

John gives out a hearty laughter. "Fuck you. You're all idiots, I swear."

But it did get John thinking. Sherlock did look way too young to be a government spy, but no matter how preposterous it seemed, it really did make sense in a way. It would explain why Sherlock had brushed off all John's attempts at a friendship.

"John?" Mike says.

"Hmm?"

"Be careful with that man," Mike warns. "I'm beginning to think you're the infatuated one."

* * *

John Watson is not infatuated with Sherlock Holmes. Or so John keeps telling himself as he approaches Sherlock once again.

"You know what people call you?" He asks as he slides into the seat next to Sherlock in general biology. He doesn't wait for Sherlock's response as he answers "the virgin."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and rests his head in his hand, his elbow leaning on the desk.

"But I call bullshit on that because you're shagging the professor."

Sherlock's only response is turn his gaze away from John.

Boring, boring…something about meiosis, boring, bored, blah blah blah…

"Are you a spy?"

"What?" Sherlock looks at John questioningly.

"A spy," John repeats. "From the government. Is that why you don't have any friends?"

"No," Sherlock snorts back at him. "I don't have friends because I'm an obnoxious bastard and everyone hates me. If I were a spy I wouldn't be wasting my time in frivolous lectures like this."

John laughs at that. "You are an obnoxious bastard."

"Thank you." The sarcasm is evident in Sherlock's irritated voice.

"We could be friends, you know," John says.

Sherlock scoffs. "Why are you wasting so much of your precious time trying to befriend the likes of me?"

John shrugs. "Hell if I know."


	4. Chapter 4

**Changed the title because why not**

* * *

"And all our yesterdays have lighted fools, the way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more."

Sherlock groans and rolls over on his side. He's lying on a grassy hill, far upon the outskirts of the campus, where no one else typically went. He would have been alone if John hadn't followed him all the way from biology. This had become the norm for the two of them. Sherlock laying somewhere and trying to take a nap while John sits besides him reading Shakespeare because it's apparently unsightly that one could live their life without even knowing who he was.

"It is a tale old by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."

"Oh, please," Sherlock scoffs. "Please stop. I'm dying. I'm slowly dying, this horrid excuse for literature is drowning me, please, please I can't breathe."

John smacks him across the face with his soft cover of Macbeth, horribly offended. "There's no need for you to get all dramatic. And this is fine literature. The classics, the best of the best. Medical examination textbooks are not generally considered bestsellers, are they?"

Sherlock only grunts in response, burying his face into his elbow like he's shielding himself from another book attack.

"Now I can see why you're at this second-rate university," John points out.

Sherlock sits up abruptly to stare at John, raising a questioning eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

Setting the book down upon the grass, John just shrugs nonchalantly. "I always wondered why you didn't go to Oxford or Cambridge or something of the sort. You've obviously a fantastic chemistry student. But then it hit me. You're not all that smart. You're rather stupid, actually."

"Well fuck you," Sherlock sneers.

"No, really," John tries to explain. "It really isn't intelligence if you just shift all of it to one corner of your brain. I'd say you have just an equal amount of intelligence as the rest of us, it's just that most of us spread our intelligence points over a variety of subjects, like literature and history, for instance."

Sherlock lets out a rude laugh. "Boring."

John looks at him, almost sadly. "Oh, Sherlock. I am going to educate you in ways you can't even imagine."

Sherlock's response is to lie down again and turn his body away from John. "Fantastic, I can't wait," he grumbles sarcastically.

* * *

I'm not gay, John keeps having to tell himself. I'm not gay because Harriet is gay and my parents will be devastated and I'll become an alcoholic just like her and that is not happening.

And yet, as the music blares loudly from the speakers and he runs into complete and total strangers, most of them not even sober enough to apologize, just the thought of meeting Sherlock here makes John's stomach twirl.

But alas, the peculiar chemistry major fails to show and John is forced to spend the duration of the party alone, mostly, when he isn't drunk and grinding up some chick because why the hell not.

He's in the middle of making out with some brunette when it dawns on him that this is actually a horrible thing to do. It's a Saturday night and he's here socializing-well, kind of-while Sherlock is stuck in his dorm probably reading some other boring textbook. On quantum mechanics, maybe. So he pushes the strange girl away, apologizes briefly, and ventures forth to look for Sarah.

He finds Clara instead, with a girl's hand hitched up her skirt. John only rolls his eyes and pretends nothing is happening as he calls out "Clara, tell Sarah and Mike I'm leaving."

Clara nods and then gives a little gasp, and John leaves perfectly knowing that Clara probably won't remember a damn thing.

Sherlock's dorm is just the building right next to John's. It's not too far from the party.

What he sees just outside the dorm is a sight to behold. Sherlock, standing there against the side of the building, engrossed in a conversation with someone who isn't John or even Lestrade. The other man is shorter, yet just as intimidating as Sherlock. John can't see his face, but his black hair is cut short and sharp. John also can't hear what they're saying, and he can't tell the nature of the conversation because Sherlock's face is just tight like any other conversation.

And then Sherlock gets slapped.

John gasps aloud, most obviously shocked by the sudden action. The unknown man having just struck Sherlock across the cheek, and Sherlock seemingly unreactant, his head turned in the direction in which he was struck. Whoever this man is, John does not like him.

And then long fingers curl around Sherlock's face, turning his head to face the mysterious man in an almost gentle manner, completely contradicting the man's previous actions.

And then just before John steps in to intervene, they're kissing. The other man is forcing his lips onto Sherlock and Sherlock isn't fighting back, and John's stomach does a somersault.

It isn't a very elaborate kiss, completely messy and generally unromantic, and John can't tell if Sherlock is enjoying it or not. The strange man's hand slips around the back of Sherlock's neck while Sherlock's arms just lay limp at his sides, like he's dead. Completely out of context, John might have identified the man as a necrophiliac.

At that moment, Sherlock's eyes lock onto John's. John, of course, panics. Sherlock makes no effort to acknowledge John, and instead just stands there and stares like there isn't a middle man between them currently sucking Sherlock's lips off.

John should leave. He really should. He should turn around and run away and pretend he hadn't seen anything. He has no right to interfere with Sherlock's personal business. Yet at the same time he feels like he should punch the hell out of whoever was currently kissing Sherlock.

Speaking of, the man suddenly seems wary of his surroundings and breaks away from his kiss to crane his head around. John watches as the hand around the back of Sherlock's neck slowly creeps its way around Sherlock's throat, and the man's eyes are instantly locked onto John's. John can see Sherlock's entire body tighten at the feeling of the hand around his throat, not suffocating him, but there all the same.

The man smiles at John-no, smirks-like nothing had happened. He doesn't even need to speak for John to get the warning in his eyes. That tell-a-soul-and-I'll-skin-you-and-wear-you-as-a-coat smile. And with the message being loud and clear, his hand retreats from Sherlock's throat and he walks away straight and dignified.

John, mouth gaped wide open, focuses his attention on Sherlock, who is stiff and still as stone. His face is completely expressionless as always, and John can't tell if he's embarrassed or angry or even upset.

John has to swallow before he speaks, like just watching that entire scene had drained all the liquid from his throat. "Are…" he clears his throat and begins again, his voice softer again. "Are you…okay?" He's almost hesitant to ask.

Sherlock doesn't respond for the longest time, his eyes cold and fixated on John like John is the one at fault. Like John is the one who slapped him and shoved his tongue down Sherlock's throat. But then Sherlock's lips move, ever so slightly, to voice the words "don't worry about me."

John takes a step forward. "You shouldn't let him push you around like that."

"It's okay, he's my boyfriend."

John raises an eyebrow, slightly surprised, less about the fact that Sherlock has a boyfriend and more about the fact that Sherlock is capable of maintaining any sort of relationship period whether it be romantic or platonic. "Is he really?"

"No."

Oh.

And then Sherlock turns to head into the dorm building. John licks his lips nervously because he doesn't want Sherlock to go. He wants to know more. He wants to understand everything about Sherlock and that man and who he is and what they are and just everything. He wants to know Sherlock's favorite color and what genre of music he listens to and whether he plays an instrument and if he had any pets when he was younger. Every time he approaches Sherlock with the intent of making friends he is brushed away coldly. Within the weeks since John had taken up the challenge of befriending Sherlock, the only thing he had learned is that Sherlock doesn't understand how the brain work and he doesn't know who Lewis Carroll is.

Sherlock walks up to the entrance of his dorm, and he can feel John's gaze still on him. At that point, he sighs. After a moment, he speaks again. "You…can come in. If you want, that is."

John's never ran faster in his life.

* * *

Sherlock's room is, surprisingly or maybe not, a terrible mess. John is actually quite horrified to see that the rumors are true and he does keep human eyeballs on his shelves. Where he gets them, John doesn't really want to know. There's only one available bed, and a mountain of clothes occupies the space where the second one should be. John figures Sherlock had tossed out that bed to make room for his mess, probably because no one ever dares to room with him in the first place. There's a faint smell that John can only classify as marijuana. He's actually quite disappointed to confirm the fact that Sherlock uses recreational drugs. In his room, no less.

"Who was that man?" John asks, never being one to beat around the bush.

Sherlock removes his coat and tosses it across a chair. "Jim Moriarty."

John half-expects Sherlock to give more info on their relationship, but when it's clear Sherlock won't say another word, he intervenes again. "And the two of you…?"

"We…dated-sort of-in secondary school," is Sherlock's response. He walks into the tiny kitchen and pours himself a glass of water. John watches, intrigued, as he gulps the liquid down with a grimace on his face, like he's trying to wash away any lingering taste of Jim Moriarty upon his lips.

"And he goes to uni here?"

"Oh, no. He's graduated already. Snuck onto campus to tell me he's leaving for America tomorrow morning, that's all. Good riddance."

It dawns on John that Jim might be that abusive boyfriend he had heard so little about. He had always thought that rumor untrue, that Sherlock was too smart to get himself involved with anyone who could potentially be labeled as abusive, or that he was too smart to stick around once finding out. He had this idealistic vision of Sherlock being a perfect virgin, too skittish to even hold hands much less date.

John presses his lips into a thin line. "Did he…" he has to swallow hard again. "Did he hurt you?"

There's a pause. And then Sherlock looks around his kitchen. "I apologize, I don't have any food to offer you. I rarely eat in here. I hope you're not particularly starving."

Sherlock's evasiveness itself answers the question, but John doesn't push the conversation. "Oh no, I'm fine. Absolutely fine. No need. Some water would be nice, though."

Sherlock doesn't hesitate to pour John a glass of water.

They sit across from each other at the small kitchen table, John awkwardly drinking his water with the full knowledge that Sherlock is glaring holes into him. Like he's looking into John's soul or something. The silence is deafening.

Eventually John feels like he's going to go mad if he doesn't say something, so he opens his mouth and says "nice night, isn't it?"

Sherlock almost laughs at John's pathetic attempt to strike conversation. "On the contrary."

"Oh, don't tell me you're one of those only-happy-when-it-rains types."

"Then I won't."

"Fucking hell."

Eventually, John ends up asleep on Sherlock's bed.

When John awakes, he is greeted by the smell of Sherlock and…cigarette smoke. There's a lovely tune ringing in his ears, and he soon realizes the source of the music. He peers over the side of the bed to reveal Sherlock sitting there with his back against the bed, legs crossed, with a lit cigarette in his mouth and a guitar in his lap.

John smiles sleepily. "Never took you for the instrumental type."

"I play when I'm thinking," Sherlock says without ever skipping a beat.

John sits up and stretches, realizing that he's still in his clothes from last night. Sherlock's changed of course, and from the color of his pants John has to wonder if his favorite color is purple.

"Breakfast?" John asks, more inviting Sherlock to eat with him rather than asking if Sherlock had any.

"I never eat breakfast," Sherlock answers.

John stands up and straightens out his outfit. "Well that's unhealthy."

"I've been told."

Just then, the door opens. John is actually quite startled, as if he and Sherlock had been caught in some sort of compromising position, and in a way they might as well have. Sherlock having over anybody who could stand to stay a whole night was probably as compromising as it gets.

Sherlock doesn't even seem to be bothered by the intruder, instead focusing on his guitar playing.

"Sherlock," a male voice calls. "Molly Hooper came by my dorm today and dropped off a pie for you. I swear to god that girl is hopelessly in lo-." The voice freezes as soon as the man catches sight of John.

"Not interested, Lestrade" Sherlock says completely in monotone. But it seems like the intruder isn't even cares about Sherlock's response as much as he cares about who the hell this bloke is and what he's doing in Sherlock's room.

"Oh my god," the man gasps, and John can now recognize him as Gregory Lestrade, forensic science major and son of a big deal DI at Scotland Yard. The man more commonly known as the closest thing Sherlock Holmes as to a friend. "They've given you another one?" He turns to John, and John can see that Lestrade thinks he's Sherlock's new roommate based on the sorry look in Lestrade's eyes. "Oh I'm so sorry for anything this cheeky bastard has done to you. If you want to transfer I completely understand. I'll help in any way I can."

John almost laughs. He can just picture Lestrade apologizing to anyone unfortunate enough to room with Sherlock. "No need, I came out of my own free will."

Lestrade's face twists with disbelief. "Oh god, really?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes and stops playing, setting his guitar upon the ground and standing himself up. "Yes, Lestrade. We both got piss drunk at a party yesterday and ended up shagging like rabbits all night long."

John is absolutely mortified, and apparently, so is Lestrade. He takes the opportunity to explain "he's lying. That's completely false. Don't listen to a damn word he says."

Lestrade laughs. "Don't worry, this bloke lost all his credibility years ago. I wouldn't believe him if he called at two am saying he'd been raped and mugged in an alleyway."

"I've got half a mind to get myself raped and mugged in an alleyway just to make you feel horrid," Sherlock sneers. "Maybe murdered."

"I'd piss on your grave."

John is actually rather surprised at the seemingly domestic scene. He's never seen Sherlock act so…friendly towards someone. Or, as friendly as Sherlock could possibly be. He can actually feel jealousy spark within him towards Lestrade. He wonders how long Lestrade had had to have pushed to get the antisocial Sherlock Holmes to befriend him like this.

Sherlock checks the watch on his wrist. "I've got class. The two of you just head out whenever convenient." He obviously didn't care much about leaving two men behind in his dorm room. Perhaps he trusted them not to steal anything. Perhaps he didn't care. Or perhaps he knew all his personal belongings were mortifying and nobody would be compelled to steal them anyways.

When Sherlock exits the room, John and Lestrade stand there awkwardly.

Lestrade is the first one to make a move. He holds out his hand for John to take. "Greg Lestrade. Sherlock's personal bodyguard."

"John Watson," John introduced himself as he grabs Lestrade's hand and they firmly shake. "And, bodyguard?"

Lestrade shrugs. "Someone needs to beat up anybody who makes trouble with him."

John raises an eyebrow. "Which is often?"

"More often that you think," Lestrade laughs. He then holds out a plastic bag toward John. The pie, John suspects. "Uh, here. I'm not one for sweets, and god knows it'll go to waste in Sherlock's hands-the dick won't eat a thing unless someone's shoving it down his throat-but maybe you'll make do with it."

John takes the bag gratefully. "Thanks."

"So, who are you?" Lestrade questions. He's obviously as intrigued by John's presence and John was about his. It appears that both of them had no idea Sherlock was capable of befriending someone other than them.

John clears his throat. "Uh, just a friend, I suppose."

Lestrade sucks in a breath, like he's almost disappointed. "I wouldn't try getting involved with Sherlock."

"Why?" John asks. He's tired of everyone saying the same thing. Don't get close. Don't be friends. Why, why, why? Why is Sherlock so destined to be alone?"

Lestrade shakes his head. "Trying to be mates with Sherlock is like being best buddies with the devil. A friendship like that will ruin you. God knows it's ruined me and he doesn't even consider me a friend." John's about to say something, but Lestrade interrupts. "Well, of course, I'm in no position to tell you how to live your life. And of course you know, Sherlock thinks he's doing just fine on his own, and in a way he is. But a lifestyle like that will be the death of him own day. He's all about self-destruction, you see. I once walked in on him burning cigarettes into his skin. He said it made him feel alive. I said it was psychotic. I thought he was a psychopath. Still do, actually."

"I don't mind that," John explains. "I'm with you on that. That Sherlock needs a friend to stop him from doing shit like that."

"Well then," Lestrade begins, nodding his head once. "Welcome to hell."


	5. Chapter 5

Welcome to hell indeed.

The first time John dreams of Sherlock is a nightmare. His mind shifting between scenes of Sherlock's slumped over disheveled body, a heroin needle protruding from his arm, and of Sherlock standing there completely naked, body covered in deep purple bruises while a dark silhouette stood over him.

The second time John dreams of Sherlock is just plain terrifying. Images of Sherlock sprawled out on his bed, panting, but instead of Jim Moriarty, it is John himself on top of Sherlock, hungrily lapping at his collarbone as Sherlock throws his head back in pure bliss with his fingers tangled hopelessly in John's hair.

"_John,_" he can almost hear Sherlock whisper.

John awakes before his alarm goes off. The sun is barely rising and Mike is fast asleep. At first, John just lies there sprawled out on his bed with his eyes fixated on the ceiling like it's the most interesting thing in his life right now. However John has never been one for lazy mornings, and so is bored quite easily. And so he gets up and puts on his sneakers-quietly of course-Mike is still sleeping after all, and walks out of his dorm room.

Sherlock is already in the coffee shop, sitting at a table in the very back corner of the shop where nobody could notice him unless they were looking for him specifically, a steaming cup of coffee in front of him and a book in his hand. Another textbook, probably.

John stands in line and orders his coffee and a bran muffin before making his way towards the antisocial genius. Ah, yes, it is a textbook. Linear algebra. Must be exciting.

"Morning," he greets, sitting across from Sherlock.

Sherlock sort of gives a little grunt in response.

And that's when John sees it.

The eyes. Red, drooping eyelids, painfully obvious bags underneath.

"Oh my god."

Sherlock looks up to look at John quizzically.

"Oh my god," John repeats. "Oh my god, Sherlock, are you high?"

Instead of giving a straight answer, Sherlock shuts his textbook and takes a sip of his coffee like John hadn't said a word.

"Jesus Christ," John gasps. "I leave you alone for two days and this is what you run off and do!"

"You are not my keeper," Sherlock tells him calmly.

John shakes his head in disbelief. "No. No you're right. What business have I to tell you how to live your life? I'm just your friend."

"You are not," Sherlock sneers, his tone rising in blatant anger. "I don't have friends."

John presses his lips into a thin line, quite offended. Offended that, even after all this time, all the conversations they've had, after John had finally began to feel like Sherlock was able to be comfortable with him, it meant nothing. That Sherlock still thought of him as everyone else. The lesser people. Far less intelligent than he. "No," he agrees, his face stiff and unamused. "No you don't. Wonder why." And with that, he stands up, taking his food and drink, and storms off, leaving Sherlock alone to contemplate his actions all by himself.

John dumps his hardly touched breakfast in the trash. Any other day he would have made a fit about it being a waste but his stomach churning in anger had lost him his appetite. He didn't have anywhere to go for another two hours still, and so he wondered around campus with his hands shoved deep in his coat pockets. The chilly autumn air stings his cheeks a bit, but he doesn't mind much. He's a strong man.

He kicks a rock furiously as hard as he can and wonders why the hell he had wasted so much of his time trying to befriend that ignorant dick. Bastard. Pretentious arsehole. Big fat jerk. Ingenious motherfucker. A man who can hardly stay interested in a topic long enough to even hold a conversation. A man who looked down on everyone who he deemed unintelligent-which was basically everybody. A man whose idea of a good time is shooting up with drugs while reading about derivatives.

Lestrade had warned John that Sherlock partook in self-destructive behaviors. The anecdote of Sherlock burning holes into his skin with a cigarette butt should have tipped John off. John didn't even want to think about what else he had done. John had already watched his sister self-destruct and crumble before his eyes drowning in alcohol, he didn't need another case of I-don't-give-a-shit-if-I-die on his hands. He was sick of it. Honestly, he hated people with that philosophy. People who would blindly throw themselves in front of a bus just for the thrill of it-because they needed the adrenaline. People like Sherlock.

And yet Sherlock seems to be the only thing on John's mind these days. John had been so set on him. On breaking him. We wanted to be special to Sherlock. He wanted to be the on that crushed that gigantic ego and melted away the cold exterior, because he knew there was something warm inside. He had seen it before. Subtly, but there all the same. The tiny smile Sherlock would almost give. The other day when John slept over, he could feel emotion coming out of those guitar strings. Sherlock likes the guitar. John wanted to introduce Sherlock to the wonders of life. Of friends. Because he lived his whole life thinking that nobody deserved to be alone.

Well. If being alone suited Sherlock's needs just so, John would grant him solitude. So what. Why would John care if Sherlock didn't talk to anybody? It isn't his problem if Sherlock OD's and dies right there on his floor. The bastard would get what was coming for him. Sherlock was right. John had no business going around telling him what to do and what not to do. John came to uni to become a doctor and have a good time, and Sherlock could help him with neither.

And yet his mind keeps flickering through the images of his dream. He practically shudders, less from the cold, and more from the thought of Sherlock's skin upon his. John suspected Sherlock's skin to be as cold as his personality. Then again, what a nice surprise it would be if it was warm, maybe from all the warmth and compassion Sherlock kept bottled up inside of him, straining to get out but with no avail.

John shakes his head. No. Sherlock is a crap friend. He'd be even worse at any attempt of a romantic relationship. Not that John was thinking of partaking in a romantic relationship with Sherlock. Because John isn't gay. Of course he isn't. Why would anyone say that? John loved women. He loves the shape of women. He loves their voices. He's had girlfriends. Girlfriends he's loved with all his heart, and it just so happens that whatever they had just couldn't work out. That's all.

John checks his watch. Only an hour had passed and when he looks around, he realizes he's in the centre of the campus. There's a statue on a podium there, dedicated to the university. A tall, classily-dressed male in a bowler hat, leaning on what looks to be an umbrella. Made by a student, one who had just graduated a few years ago, actually. John always knew this but he had never bothered to care just who the artist was. According to rumor, the sculptor wasn't even an art student, and had actually majored in politics.

There's a plaque on the back of the podium. Mycroft Holmes.

John is actually shocked. Holmes isn't a very popular last name, and there's only one person in his life who shares it. The prospect of Sherlock having a brother is a bit tough to swallow. Sherlock always seemed like the spoiled rotten only child of a rich family. The idea of Sherlock having an older brother to look up to, an older brother to rely on, didn't really seem to fit him. Although John suspects that maybe this brother was the reason for some of Sherlock's outer ice shell. For a man to be this talented in art while holding a degree in politics, he had to be very talented, perhaps even more so than Sherlock himself. John almost shuddered at the thought. If people considered Sherlock a genius, this Mycroft could perhaps be classified as a genius and then some.

Then it dawns on John that his name is Mycroft and Sherlock's name is Sherlock and he actually snickers. His parents must have been drunk when they named their children.

At that point, he can hear his name being called faintly. He looks to the left, and then to the right, but when he sees nothing he turns his attention back to the statue.

"John," the voice calls again, a bit louder.

John spins around once more, and sure enough he sees a man in an oversized coat running towards him. Dark curls bounce upon his head, and good god those cheekbones could be seen from outer space.

Good grief.

John had half a mind to make a run for it. But no matter how much he thinks it, his feet won't budge and he's just about as still as the statue behind him.

When Sherlock approaches John, he has to bend over and rest his hands on his knees, completely out of breath and maybe about to keel over. He coughs, exhales deeply, inhales sharply, and repeats all over again. He looks like he's just run a marathon.

"Jesus Christ," John sighs in exasperation. "What, did you run to the moon and back?"

Sherlock, never one for jokes, only coughs again before he tries to speak between rugged, heavy breaths. "I…I ran around…half the campus…looking for…you."

John parts his lips to say something, but is instantly cut off.

"I need…I needed, I needed to…to talk to you." Sherlock takes one big exhale and slowly stands up straight. Already he looks so much more collected and if John hadn't seen him literally a second ago, he wouldn't have assumed Sherlock had just spent half an hour running around like an idiot.

"Sherlock, I-."

"No, stop," Sherlock interrupts him again, reaching out and grabbing John's wrist forcefully.

John is quite confused.

"John, you were right," Sherlock admits, tightening his hold on John's arm. "I don't have friends. I've just got one."

John opens his mouth to say something, but it seems like Sherlock isn't done yet.

"I'm sorry," he apologizes boldly, something John never thought Sherlock was capable of. "I…I want to be friends with you." He licks his bottom lip nervously. "I just suck at social interaction. I don't know how to be a good friend. Or any kind of friend at all. All my life I've been so alone. I thought I could survive like this. On my own, that is. But I…I can't. You're all I think about. I need your friendship. I need you."

"Stop," John demands, holding his hands out in front of him. "Stop before this turns into Brokeback Mountain." And then, suddenly serious again, he sighs. "I accept. Your apology, I mean. I guess…well, I know you're no good with people. The only relationships you have in your life are terribly unhealthy and I…I just…" He should he angry. He should be furious. Sherlock is the biggest arsehole he's met in his life, and he should be punished for his actions, but just Sherlock's eyes say it all. How unhappy he is. The guilt. The genuine apology. He's so sincere. Maybe even a little bit hurt. John can see it. The pain in Sherlock's eyes. How alone he is. It dawns on John that it's not that Sherlock wants to be alone, but rather that he feels that it's his destiny to be alone. Because he'd already been shut from the outside world long ago, and creating a shell and amplifying his solitude was the only way to cope. To make it seem like he chose this life on purpose. When all he really needed was a friend. All he really needed was John.

And John can't resist reaching out and grabbing Sherlock's shoulders, bringing the much taller man into a tight hug. He can feel Sherlock tense within his arms, and only tightens his grip to let Sherlock know that this is okay. This is what friends do.

Sherlock hesitantly brings his arms around John's back, still unsure of what to do. His fingers just ghost over John's spine, like if he touches John, John will crumble before his eyes and he'll be left alone again.

"It's okay," John whispers, and he can't quite remember a time when he's been this happy. Excited, like he has a purpose in the world.

And then Sherlock is gripping him tight and John can hardly breathe. Tight. Tighter still. So starved for touches. John can't even imagine when it was the last time Sherlock had gotten hugged like this. Or at all. He'd never seen anyone touch Sherlock, not even an accidental brush on the shoulder. He wondered if Sherlock even remembered what another person's skin felt like.

John, suddenly weary that they were in fact two guys hugging ferociously in public, despite it being early morning and most people not being awake. He steps away from Sherlock, who reluctantly lets go of John.

The two of them look at each other for a while. John swears Sherlock's eyes changed colors. And then they're laughing. Laughing like it's the funniest thing in the world.

"I've got class," John says as their giggles die down.

"So have I."

"Well then," John grins. "Let's go. And along the way you can tell me all about Mycroft."

Sherlock's eyes flicker to the statue and he winces like the very presence of the statue actually physically harms him.


	6. Chapter 6

_A tangled mess of bedsheets and limbs._

_John slips his hands up Sherlock's naked back, fingers ghosting along each vertebrae as they move together in harmony. _

_Lips connect in a ferocious battle for dominance, tongues wrapped around each other and teeth scraping sensitive skin. Sherlock clutches at John's head, fingers threading through the blonde hair._

_Hands. Hands everywhere. John flips them over so that he's on top of Sherlock, palms gliding across the smooth skin of Sherlock's chest. Over his heart. Feeling it pulse with every beat. Watching Sherlock's ribcage rise and fall with every breath. Hot. Hot skin. So hot. _

_Fingers dip beneath the waistband of Sherlock's trousers, massaging the skin of his pelvis. So bony. So angular. So perfect. Sherlock holds John tightly as John discards of his pants. Naked. Beautiful. So beautiful. _

_Sherlock returns the favor. He pulls John's pants down so that they're both equally naked. He grips John's hips and pulls the both of them closer together. Grinding. Beautiful friction. Hot. Feels so good. It's almost too much. Almost like a dream. _

_John watches Sherlock mouth his name, but no sound leaves his lips. "John," Sherlock seems to want to say. "John."_

John thought his life was supposed to get easier once officially becoming friends with Sherlock. On the contrary, he finds himself more stressed than ever before. His dreams are getting more frequent and often end with John taking an ice cold shower and feeling like a giant pervert. It's like he's a teenager all over again. How embarrassing.

"Do you fancy him?" Sarah asks. It's a fresh Monday morning and she sits next to John at their anatomy lecture. The professor hasn't yet arrived.

John scoffs at her. "Not a chance."

"You're a complete and total liar."

"I am not."

Sarah frowns, very well knowing that John is stubborn and won't go any farther. "You be careful. There isn't much chance in this close-minded world for gay doctors."

"I'm not gay," John nearly snaps at her quite defensively. He feels like he's had to admit that so many more times since he's met Sherlock.

* * *

"I'm not gay," John has to tell himself as he notices just how cute Sherlock's hips swing when he walks.

"I'm not gay," John mumbles under his breath as he wakes up after a particularly erotic dream.

"I'm not gay," John thinks to himself as the sight of Sherlock's little I'm-trying-to-smile facial expression makes his heart skip a beat. Or two.

"Dammit, I'm gay."

* * *

It all starts at a party. A party that began innocent and lead into chaos.

Maybe it was John's fault for getting drunk beyond most comprehension.

Maybe it was Sherlock's fault for not stopping him.

Sherlock doesn't even want to be here. He never does. College parties are boring and stupid and he can just feel his IQ dropping by the minute. This is all Lestrade's idea. "Go to a party. Go be social. Make friends. Or just sit there. Like I give a fuck. But at least you'll live life without regretting the fact that you never went to a wild party at uni." Or something along those lines.

Seeing John there brightens his mood a bit. Just having John there raises the level of intelligence emitting from the room. John sits down next to Sherlock with two beers in his hand. He hands one to Sherlock, who takes it without a hassle. Perhaps John knows that giving alcohol to Sherlock isn't the best idea he's ever had. Sherlock is essentially a junkie. Quite possibly an alcoholic. Or a recovering alcoholic that John's about to resurface.

They drink in silence. That's the sort of friendship they have. They're able to sit there and say absolutely nothing to each other and yet the situation still won't turn awkward. Neither of them are much for idle chatter. Sherlock's philosophy is that if one feels the need to talk about the weather one doesn't need to talk at all.

By the third beer, Sherlock can hear John's words begin to slur. A girl grabs onto John and begs him to dance. He complies. Sherlock watches his only friend being taken away into the middle of the crowd. John disappears. Sherlock sits in silence. A statue. It's hard to tell if he's even breathing.

A few minutes later, John is pressed against the wall with a tongue down his throat. She's a very pretty woman, short pixie blonde hair and lips that kind of remind him of Sherlock's, just a bit. She's far from skinny, but John isn't the kind to care much about that, and her hips are just perfect for him to grip and stabilize himself because the room is starting to spin. He catches Sherlock in the corner of his peripheral vision but there isn't any emotion on the dark-haired man's face. How typical.

"Your sweater is hideous," the girl purrs into his ear.

"I've been told," is John's answer.

John starts to get hard beneath his trousers. It's only a natural reaction, especially when a pretty lady is all over him. But all too soon, she's gone and disappeared in the midst of the crowd and John lets out a strangled groan.

So he finds Sherlock again and the two of them down three more beers each.

When John starts mumbling about how he needs to pee so bad he'd whip out his dick and just piss on the floor, Sherlock decides it's been enough. Through it all, Sherlock proves to be the more alcohol tolerant, and he throws John's arm around his neck to support him as John wouldn't be able to make it across the room by himself. He pushes through the crowd, looking quite annoyed that he has to touch all these inferior people. Perhaps he's afraid he'll catch their stupidity.

They go to Sherlock's dorm. They'd go to John's, except John actually locks his door and he can't exactly find his key. That and Sherlock doesn't like John's dorm. It's too clean. Well, John's side anyways. Mike's side is atrocious, much like any other uni student, but Sherlock doesn't like touching anything of Mike's. Mike's not a bad person, but his intelligence isn't exactly on par with Sherlock's.

Sherlock flings John onto the sofa almost like John is some sort of pest. He then sits down at the tiny kitchen table to categorize mammal hearts based on weight.

He is just weighing the heart of a rat when John begins mumbling.

"Sherlooock, water."

Sherlock gets up to go pour John some water.

"Sherlooock, it's so bright."

Sherlock turns the lights off, even though it means he's unable to see the numbers of his scale in the dark.

"Sherlooooock, cold."

Sherlock takes the blanket off his bed and drapes it over John's sprawled out body.

"Sherlooooock, I love youuu."

At that, Sherlock scoffs. "You're delusional."

"Not," John counters, reaching his arms out to grab Sherlock by the wrist. "I'm perfectly sane, yoou're the one who's deluuusional."

Even in his drunken state, John can feel Sherlock make a fist. "John, please. Go to sleep."

"Kiss me."

"Stop."

"Kiss me."

"John."

"Kiss me."

"You don't want this."

"That's what yooou say," John almost laughs. He yanks Sherlock's wrist down so that Sherlock is forced to bend over or otherwise suffer his arm being pulled from his socket. "You wanna kiss me toooo."

Sherlock furrows his eyebrows. He's never had to deal with anything like this. Is this how friends put up with other drunk friends?

And then John abruptly sits up and grabs Sherlock's face in a split second, pressing their foreheads together and forcing them to stare each other in the eyes. Sherlock has the most beautiful eyes in the world. John can never tell if they're green or blue or hazel or all three. They both smell like alcohol.

The moment their lips connect, Sherlock resists. His hand comes up to try to pry John's fingers from his face and he tries to pull his head back, but John is persistent and instead wraps his hands around the back of Sherlock's head, linking his fingers together in an inseparable bond that traps Sherlock against him.

Soon they're on the floor, John straddling Sherlock's hips as he bends down to kiss the genius below him. Sherlock, perhaps just a bit tipsy, parts his lips just a little bit, more in surprise than anything else. But John sees this as an opportunity to slip his tongue past those perfect lips that seemed to be carved out of the hillside of a majestic mountain. God those lips were just as soft as John had imagined them to be.

Maybe because Sherlock is just a little bit drunk, he snakes his arms around John's neck. Just a little bit.

Much like their conversations, the kiss is spoken through mainly silence. Neither of them groan or moan or hiss or whisper each other's names. In terms of first kisses, this one is rather mediocre. Sparks don't fly or whatever. A choir doesn't break out into song. But it's a kiss nonetheless.

John slides his hands up Sherlock's shirt, fingers grazing over every patch of smooth bare skin he can touch. Sherlock is so thin that when lying down his stomach is practically concave, and John doesn't understand why that's so much of a turn-on. Their tongues tangle with each other as Sherlock grabs a fistful of John's hair and as John runs his hand over Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock's hips buck up. It's a natural reaction, of course. John catches Sherlock's lower lip between his teeth and rests a hand upon Sherlock's chest, exactly above where the heart is, and feels the rapid and uneven beat of Sherlock's heart banging against his ribcage.

* * *

John awakes to the sound of a guitar softly playing. He's in a bed. Sherlock's bed, because it smells like cigarettes and bleach and Sherlock. Without a shirt on. Or trousers for that matter. He's got a massive hangover and his memory is cloudy. He does remember going back with Sherlock. And then…and then what? He doesn't remember.

Yes he does.

Lips. He felt Sherlock's lips. With his own. Jesus Christ. He sits up abruptly in a panic, his heart rate elevating as he tries to recall what the hell actually went on last night.

Sherlock is in the living room, also shirtless, although he's wearing a pair of deep purple skinny jeans, strumming on his guitar like it's the most normal thing in the world. John can see Sherlock's vertebras jutting out, straining against his thin skin like prisoners so close to freedom but never getting a full taste of it.

Apparently Sherlock is a psychic because he reads John's presence immediately and halts his playing right in the middle of the song.

There's a moment of silence surrounding the both of them, and this time, it truly is awkward.

Then Sherlock lets out a very audible sigh. "Don't worry," he assures John. "Nothing happened."

John presses his lips into a thin line. "I didn't say anything did."

"You were thinking it."

This time it's John's turn to sigh as he walks towards Sherlock perfectly aware that he's still not wearing anything but pants. "Sherlock,-."

"It's okay," Sherlock cuts him off, obviously not keen to talk about the subject. "You were drunk. I was drunk. It happens. There's nothing more to discuss."

"No," John objects, taking the liberty to sit beside Sherlock on the couch at a reasonable distance. "There's plenty to discuss."

Sherlock doesn't look at John. In fact, he turns his head completely in the opposite direction, almost like he's avoiding John's face altogether. "John, you…"

"I know what I said. I think. Maybe." John rubs his face with a hand in exasperation. "And just uh…what happened last night, maybe, wasn't just a simple impulse."

"I'm not sure I understand," Sherlock replies, perhaps confused for once on his life.

John licks his bottom lip nervously. "What I mean is…" He stares deeply at Sherlock, even though Sherlock is avoiding his gaze. "Well…I mean, what would you do if it was true?" A slight hesitation. "What I said. Last night. Most of it."

This time, Sherlock does turn his head back to face John, a new bewildered expression upon his face that John never thought he'd ever see in his life. "John…"

Before Sherlock can continue, and before John can ever take a moment to contemplate himself, his mouth opens and sounds emit from his lips. "Sherlock, I'd like to pursue a relationship with you."

John knows this is a bad idea. In every single aspect. He beats himself up for blurting it out because this is actually a horrible, horrible idea. This is bad for his future career. For his reputation at uni. For himself. For Sherlock. Sherlock is not a normal person. John realizes this. He doesn't know how Sherlock takes romantic relationships. He doesn't know if Sherlock will be the dangerously clingy, near-stalker type of boyfriend or a boyfriend who won't so much as look at let alone touch and converse with John. John can't imagine Sherlock would want to cuddle often. Although Sherlock does seem to be a bit deprived of touch. Either way, this could end up very badly for the both of them. Not to mention John's never had experience with men. Well, not that Sherlock probably has too much experience either. At all, with either gender, and at least John knows how to make a woman scream. Maybe it's the same way for men.

"That is a horrible idea," Sherlock agrees quite blatantly.

"Of course," is John's response. He knows that even if Sherlock rejects him, they'd go straight back to being best mates. And John is perfectly okay with that. Maybe.

"I make a horrid boyfriend," Sherlock warns him.

"Can't be any worse than this one girl I dated back in secondary school."

There's silence just then. Sherlock slowly sets his guitar down. The tension in the room is nearly unbearable.

Then Sherlock parts his lips and gives his final answer.

"Then yes. If only to show you how much you will deeply regret ever asking me."


	7. Chapter 7

The first week after they officially became a couple (not publically of course) Sherlock tried to give John a blowjob.

It wasn't really that John minded as much as it was that John wanted to take things slow. He had been flattered, really, and was rather surprised when Sherlock looked like his heart was broken into two.

"I thought that's what you wanted?"

John only smiled sympathetically at him and gently gave his cheek a tiny stroke with the back of his hand. "Oh, Sherlock."

John actually has to sit there and explain to Sherlock that blowjobs aren't necessary to sustain a healthy relationship, especially this early on. He's actually rather appalled that Sherlock had been taught that, and there really isn't anyone to blame but Jim Moriarty. It's actually amazing how virginal Sherlock could seem without actually being virginal in the slightest.

"Did he use you?" John asks, his head on Sherlock's lap as they watch television with the sound muted.

"For sex?" Sherlock clarifies. "Yes." He seems impartial to John's body position. He hasn't yet become accustomed to touching, although he doesn't mind whatever John does.

"I hate hearing that," John mumbles sleepily.

"You asked," is Sherlock's blatant retort.

"I suppose I did." John rolls over so that he's facing the ceiling rather than the television. "But no more about Moriarty."

So they succumb to silence. Silence is good. Silence is peaceful. Sherlock actually feels at peace with John without having to engage in some sort of destructive behavior. It's nearly heartwarming. Almost domestic.

Just as John starts to close his eyes, however, the door slams open. John starts to scramble up, but it seems like he's just a touch too late.

"Holy fuck."

It's Lestrade, standing in the doorway with a hand full of what appears to again be some sort of pastries and a jaw dropped nearly to the floor.

John starts to stammer.

"Holy fuck," Lestrade only repeats, and Sherlock seems to be completely calm about the entire thing.

Lestrade drops the box of pastry on the kitchen table, if only to point an accusatory finger at the couple. "No, don't you dare even try to pretend," he warns them. "I know what I saw. Try explaining yourselves out of this one."

John opens his mouth to say something-anything, that'll save their arses, but Sherlock interrupts. "We're dating."

"Holy fuck."

"Sherlock!" John cries out, like he's mortified.

Sherlock's only response is to shrug like he's done nothing wrong. "I understand you're worried about being publicized. Trust me, Lestrade won't tell a soul. I ensure it."

"That's not the point!" John sighs.

"Holy fuck."

"Lestrade, please."

"Sherlock!"

"I promise you," Sherlock says. "I will tell no one else. It's just that this is less tedious and annoying than Lestrade finding out for himself. And trust me, he would have."

"Holy fuck."

In the end, John and Lestrade split a Danish at the kitchen table- courtesy of Molly Hooper of course, while Sherlock sits on the sofa playing his guitar with a burning cigarette between his lips.

"I don't believe you," Lestrade tells John, his mouth half full.

"I have nothing to apologize for," John defends himself.

Lestrade shakes his head quickly. "Never said you did. But all the same I can't believe you. This is bad. This is so bad. For you, I mean. Do you have any idea what you're up for?"

John shrugs. "Heads in the fridge?"

"Sherlock is not a romantic person," Lestrade warns.

John nods. "Yep, got that."

Lestrade can't really argue with that. So the subject is dropped.

* * *

"Sherlock, please," John calls out in exasperation for what seems like the millionth time that night. "This isn't how this works." It's been a week since Lestrade found out the two of them had been dating.

Sherlock sits at his desk, peering through a microscope as if John isn't even there. "Really? Because I think this is working quite nicely. I'm actually learning a lot."

John sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers. It's nearing midnight now, the blinds are open and John can clearly see the stars. "Yes but this isn't what you're supposed to be learning," he explains to Sherlock. "I have no doubt in your scientific confidence, but you do realize your English final is tomorrow and you still can't tell the difference between abstract and concrete language."

"Well I don't care about abstract versus concrete language."

"Well your marks do."

Sherlock snorts. "Marks are hardly a measure of intelligence."

John throws his hands up in the air. "Yes, yes, the failure of the English education system, I've heard it all before. But come on. Won't a nice mark make you even the slightest bit pleased?"

Sherlock turns away from his microscope and twists his head to look at John. He's pouting-actually pouting, like a five year old child, and John almost wants to laugh because this is who Sherlock truly is. A grown man with a juvenile mindset no matter how hard he tries to hide it. Sherlock is manipulative and much like a child, he can't stand when things don't go his way. It's actually kind of adorable in that god-I-wish-you-wouldn't-do-that sort of way.

John crosses his arms over his chest in defiance, to show that he won't back down. He won't give in to that cute little pout. It won't work on him. He watches Sherlock stiffen and puff out his ribcage like he's trying to out-stubborn John. It's almost like they're animals, fighting to assert their dominance. Their eyes lock onto each other, hardly blinking.

But alas, Sherlock cracks first. He exhales deeply and closes his eyes for a long moment before giving in. "All right. Fine. What's the difference between abstract and concrete language?"

John half-smiles as he walks up to Sherlock, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Come on. To the living room, where you won't be distracted by…whatever the hell is under that microscope-Oh god did it just move?!"

Studying with Sherlock is more tedious than John had ever imagined. They basically had a little less than eight hours to go over an entire semester's worth of English-no, seven years worth of English, because it seemed like Sherlock couldn't recall anything past the start of secondary school.

John reads aloud a sample passage to be analyzed for rhetorical devices. "And in 1543, Copernicus built his theory that the earth revolves around the sun, a premise that still rings true today."

"The earth goes around the sun?"

When John looks up from the textbook, his is absolutely mortified to see Sherlock's genuinely bewildered expression. His jaw gapes open and he stammers a bit. "You didn't know what?"

"Why should I?" Is Sherlock's defense.

John gives out a little rude laughter. "This is primary school, Sherlock!"

"Is it relevant to being a chemist?"

"Well, perhaps not, but-."

"But nothing. Not interested."

John scoffs. "But it's the solar system!"

"Oh hell!" Sherlock yells out in frustration. "What does that matter?"

John is in disbelief. He's caught between an internally struggling state of oh-god-how-could-this-man-be-so-stupid and oh-god-he's-adorable-when-he-doesn't-know-anything. In the end, he settles for the latter and decides that Sherlock's nearly inhumane obliviousness is actually quite cute. He laughs and runs his fingers through his hair.

"Don't make fun of me, John," Sherlock pleads.

"I'm not," John says between laughs. "I just…wow. You're an idiot, you know that?"

Sherlock sits up straighter than ever before and looks positively offended.

And then they're both laughing.

It's nearing three in the morning when Sherlock gets restless. Boxes of Chinese takeout and empty coffee mugs lay strewn about, most of them attempts to get John to stay away more than Sherlock. It seems like Sherlock is used to all-nighters.

"Bored."

"Sherlock." John slams the open textbook on the table before them in frustration. "I'm trying to help you." He really is dealing with an overgrown child.

"Let's do something else," Sherlock proposes. "I'll play the guitar for you."

"No," John rejects him. "The only reason I came over was to help you study for your English mid-term. If you're not going to study, I'll just leave and let you sleep." He starts to close the textbook. However, his actions are halted when a slender hand grips his wrist and stops him in his tracks.

"No," Sherlock objects. "No, stay. Please. I want you to stay. I'll be good. I'll study. Help me."

When John looks into Sherlock's eyes, he can see the absolute sincerity. Of course Sherlock doesn't want this. He doesn't want to study. He hates English class. He doesn't understand literature-nor does he want to. But more than anything, he doesn't want John to leave, and if studying will keep John by his side, he's willing to be uncomfortable for a couple hours.

John can't help it. He smiles warmly at Sherlock. He's proud of him, really, that Sherlock is finally learning how to sacrifice a little bit of comfort. "Okay," he practically whispers. He can't stop himself from cupping the side of Sherlock's face with his free hand and leaning forward to give Sherlock a light peck on the lips-the most coupley thing they've done all week.

Sherlock doesn't react at first. He just sort of sits there unmoving, like John is kissing a stone, but then he loosens his grip on John's wrist. John takes that opportunity to grab the other side of Sherlock's face, pulling the two of them closer together. Sherlock hesitantly places a hand on John's shoulder, fingers hardly even touching, simply ghosting across the fabric of John's hideous sweater.

"Okay, enough of that," John whispers against Sherlock's lips. "Back to studying, hmm?"

At around five am, John falls asleep with an open textbook on his lap and his head on Sherlock's shoulder. For a while, Sherlock lets him, marveling in the warmth of John's body, the weight of John's head on his shoulder. It's a relaxed, peaceful feeling, quite a nice change from Sherlock's normally hectic life. A sort of euphoria he can get without stick a needle into his arm. But alas, geniuses get bored, and Sherlock soon finds himself itching for excitement. So he holds John's head and gently lowers his entire body down onto the couch. Sherlock then proceeds to cover the sleeping man with a blanket, something he finds himself doing often lately. He then walks into his room to take a peek at the experiment on his desk.

When John wakes up and Sherlock has to go, he gives Sherlock a reassuring pat on the back. "We tried," he tells Sherlock. "That's all that matters. Now go ace that test."

Sherlock ends up failing anyways.

John couldn't be prouder.


	8. Chapter 8

John spends Christmas with his family. His father had returned home, and Harriet managed to stay sober at least half the duration of his visit. There were a couple fights here and there, a few domestics between his parents, sibling quarrels with his sister, typical family stuff especially since the Christmas season is so chaotic, but overall John has a wonderful time. He misses his family at uni, he really does, but this reunion is enough to get him by until spring. They aren't rich by far, but John's mother manages to prepare a rather decent sized ham. John can hardly move afterwards, he's so stuffed. He's almost too lazy to even breathe.

"John, come help me with the dishes," his mother calls.

John groans. "Do I have to?"

"John Watson!"

That snap of his mother's voice is threatening enough to make John nearly run into the kitchen at lightening speed. Mothers can be quite intimidating, after all.

They wash the dishes in collaboration. John cleans them and his mother dries and places them back on the proper rack. They were quite a traditional family-never had much use for dishwashing machines and other fancy whatnot. It's quiet, save for the sound of water running and the faintly audible Hark the Herald playing from the living room. It's nice, and John find he rather misses this sort of sedentary lifestyle. Just the thought of going back to uni and eating all the cheap god-awful food again makes him almost want to be sick.

"So, how's uni?" his mother asks as she swipes a towel across a plate.

"Oh, just the same," is John's reply.

"Having fun?"

"Immensely."

"You find a girl yet?"

John hesitates, unsure of what he's supposed to say. He and Sherlock are far from publicized, for many reasons, and his family is one of them. He can still vividly recall the chaos around the time Harriet came out of the closet. It took their father nearly a month before he could start speaking to her again. And John's mother is extremely set on eventually having grandkids. It's Christmas day and John doesn't want to blurt out that he's seeing a bloke, but then again it must be a sin to lie to one's own mother.

He settles on shaking his head and responding "no," because technically, he hasn't found a girl because Sherlock simply isn't female. It's only a half lie, so John figures that's okay.

His mother seems almost disappointed. "Oh, I see. Well, you won't be young forever."

"I know."

* * *

John decides to greet Sherlock with a surprise visit when he gets back to uni. Although still a bit jetlagged, he walks straight off the plane and heads towards Sherlock's dorm.

Sherlock's dorm, as per usual, isn't locked, so John can walk straight in. "Sherlock?" He calls out as he opens the door.

What he finds is someone sitting on the sofa. This person, however, is not Sherlock. The man is immaculately well-dressed in a black suit and the shiniest shoes John has ever laid eyes on. At his side rests an umbrella with a degree of blackness that matches his outfit. He's sitting up straight and proper, and his hair is cut short and well-groomed. There's also a tiny little smirk on his face. John should have known right away. But he didn't.

John is actually rather startled by the man. He opens his mouth to say something, shuts it as if it's unimportant, but parts his lips a second time. "Who the hell are you?"

The man cocks his head to the side curiously, the smirk never leaving his face. "Well this is a surprise. You're rather ordinary."

"Excuse me?"

"And short."

"Excuse me?"

"Your sweaters are just as ugly as he mentioned."

"Excuse me?" John repeats, a bit more insulted this time. He's seen this man's face for ten seconds and the anger flaring beneath his skin is already burning hot. "Where is Sherlock?"

"Out," is the man's solid reply. He looks down at the expensive-looking watch on his wrist. "But he should be back any second now."

With that being said, the door swings open. John snaps his head around to see Sherlock standing there in the doorway, dressed in his favorite oversized coat. John's about to say something, but Sherlock is already taking action, his face twisting in a sort of angry grimace as he strides swiftly towards the sitting man.

"Go away," Sherlock hisses. "You said you'd be gone by this morning."

The man seems unfazed by Sherlock's anger. "Politicians do lie, you know." When Sherlock only clenches his hands into fists, however, the man stands up and grabs his umbrella in the most dignified way John has ever seen.

All three of them are silent as the man walks towards the door. John is confused as fuck and Sherlock just looks like a volcano about to rain over Pompeii. His lips are pressed together tightly, like if he opened his mouth lava would spew all over the place and burn the dorm to the ground.

"Oh," the man says, stopping in his tracks as he steps into the doorway. He gives his black umbrella a little playful swing. "You really should call more often. You know how mummy worries."

'Mummy?' John mouths to himself, more confused than ever.

"Go away, Mycroft," Sherlock hisses between his teeth. "And don't ever come back."

And that's when everything clicks. John lets out a gasp. "Mycroft?"

"Happy New Year, John." The man named Mycroft gives John a little salute before walking away from the both of them.

John and Sherlock stood there for a long time, John staring at the hallway with his jaw gaped open as Mycroft disappeared from view. Mycroft Holmes. The infamous brother of Sherlock. The one rumored to be the British Government and the only reason Sherlock is here at uni in the first place.

John blinks a couple of times and then turns his head to stare at Sherlock. "That's Mycroft?" There's obvious disbelief in his voice.

Sherlock's response is to just shrug his coat off his shoulders and throw it over a chair.

They spend the rest of the afternoon watching crap telly lazily on the sofa and pigging out on takeout because it seems like without John there to practically force food down his throat, Sherlock had hardly eaten a proper meal the entire break.

"He came as a surprise visit," Sherlock explains. "Not the first time this has happened. He said he'd be gone by this morning."

John almost crack a smile. "He cares about you."

Sherlock twists his face unpleasantly. "We hate each other."

John laughs and drapes an arm over Sherlock's shoulder. "I missed you, you know."

"That's nice."

"Did you miss me?" John asks curiously.

Sherlock shakes his head. "I found other ways to occupy my time in your absence."

"You're a liar," John snorts. "I bet you missed me. I bet you were so bored without me. I bet you moped around all day and night talking to me like I was there and getting so upset when I wouldn't respond."

"Okay," Sherlock finally admits. "I missed you. But I did not mope around."

"Did too."

"Did not."

John laughs again. He tries to focus on the television, but it's just some boring old reality show. "You told your brother my sweaters were ugly?"

"I believe the exact term I used was 'criminally hideous.'"

"You prick."

* * *

Turns out Sherlock had missed John over the break more than John had suspected.

"Oh god," Sarah sighs. "I saw him around campus a few times. He always looked high out of his mind."

"What?" John asks, alarmed. They're sitting on John's sofa, Mike sitting on the arm and Clara in the kitchen making tea for the lot of them. They had all gathered for a belated Christmas party because most of them had gone home for the holiday and they hadn't had a chance to properly celebrate.

Clara comes back into the room with a tray full of mugs and begins dispersing them. "I don't understand how you can stand to even be around him," she tells John. "He scares me so much."

"Saw him on the roof of the dorm building," Sarah told him. "He looked so out of it. I don't even know what he must have been on. But he looked like he was going to fall. I was so scared I actually called Lestrade to get him down. I wouldn't have any brains splattered on the concrete on my account."

"Jesus Christ," John exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair.

"I thought he'd been doing better since you came along," Mike points out. "But then you leave and he. It's terrifying, really. You'd think he was in love with you or something like that."

"That bastard," John mumbles more to himself than to anyone else.

John gets all sorts of confirmation when he meets up with Lestrade in the campus park.

It's a quiet, chilly Saturday morning and the both of them are covered head to toe in winter coats and scarves and gloves.

"Not the worst he's ever been," Lestrade admits. "He hasn't hit too much of the heavy stuff. More like the lighter stuff in more frequency. There's only so much I can do, you know. When I find his secret stash he always has a spare. The only next best thing would be calling my dad and ordering a drugs bust, but that wouldn't fare too well for Sherlock's career."

"Jeez," John groans. "No, I get it. I appreciate you trying to help. Really."

Lestrade looks concerned. "He'll be okay now. Now that you're back. You can keep him entertained more than I can."

John nods reluctantly. "Yeah, yeah. I get it. That's my job now, huh? Keep him off the drugs?"

"A bit, yeah. That is what you signed up for when you and him decided to snog each other up," Lestrade reminds him.

John knows he can't complain. He knew Sherlock was a druggie even before they became friends. He's dealt with addicts before. He's the one who had to hold Harriet's hair back many a night as she vomited into the toilet over and over. He knew what he was getting into. That didn't mean he had to enjoy it.

* * *

What John doesn't expect, however, is to open Sherlock's door and find the genius sprawled out across the sofa with a needle in his arm.

"Oh my god!" John screams in horror.

In his delayed reaction, Sherlock slowly turns his head to see John running towards him frantically.

"You're such an idiot!" John yells, sitting Sherlock up and yanking the needle out of his arm. "You imbecile! How could you be so stupid?"

Of course, Sherlock doesn't say anything back. He's so calm. Relaxed. Euphoric.

"Fuck," John hisses, kneeling before Sherlock and dropping his forehead to Sherlock's knees in exasperation. "Goddammit."

John is still angry when Sherlock wakes up from his high.

When Sherlock's eyes flutter open, he isn't given a break before John is practically yelling at his face. "Where is it?"

Sherlock struggles to sit up and blinks slowly. "John…?"

"Where is it?" John growls, grabbing Sherlock by the shoulders harshly. "Where are you hiding it? Throw it out! Throw it all out right now!"

"John, I-."

"Dammit, Sherlock!" John yells. "Why would you do this? I'm right here! I'm back! If you were bored you could have just called! You could have called any time! I would have hopped on that plane and left my family in the middle of Christmas dinner if you called!"

Sherlock actually tries to defend himself. "Why I do isn't any business of yours."

John stares at him in disbelief. "No business of mine? Sherlock, it's on my head if you OD and drop dead on the floor!"

"Of course it isn't."

"You don't get it," John tells him in frustration. "You just don't get it. You're my responsibility, you big baby. We're supposed to be dating. That's what being a couple means! That I'm your responsibility and you're mine!"

"That's not what Jim-."

"Fuck Jim!" John screams. "Jim is an abusive arsehole! Why the hell would you listen to anything he said? Jim this, Jim that, you act like he's some sort of hero even after he beat and raped you and god knows what else!" John begins to shake Sherlock by the shoulders.

Sherlock is taken aback, his mouth gaped open and eyes wide and staring straight at John. John halts in his tracks and stares back. With his hands still gripped tightly around Sherlock's shoulders, quite possible even hard enough to bruise, he looks into Sherlock's eyes and can almost see the fear.

John presses his lips into a tight line as he starts to calm down. He's still angry. He's still angry beyond belief, but he realizes that if he sticks around, all he'll turn into is another Jim. There is horror in Sherlock's eyes. He's scared. John wonders if that's how Sherlock looked when Jim was beating him.

"Sod this," John whispers between his teeth. "Sod this. I'm leaving." He stands up and finally lets go of Sherlock's shoulders to turn around and leave.

"Stop," Sherlock's voice cracks as he calls out. "Don't leave. John. Please. Don't go."

John, his back turned to Sherlock, pauses in his tracks for a moment. He sighs. "Call me when you're clean."

And with that, John walks out.


	9. Chapter 9

Of course John feels bad. Horrible, even. Nobody gets into fights with their significant other and enjoys it. Or at least nobody should.

As John lies on his bed, staring straight up at the ceiling, he wonders if he was perhaps a bit rough on Sherlock. He knows the poor guy has issues. He shouldn't have attacked Sherlock like that, perhaps. He could see the trauma in Sherlock's eyes, caused by Jim Moriarty. It wasn't Sherlock's fault, really. He couldn't have known Jim was abusive. People seldom do know at first glance. That's how most abusive relationships are born. John bets Jim was really sweet to Sherlock at first. Maybe made Sherlock felt special. Planted sweet kisses on him every day. Then maybe Jim got drunk one day. Maybe that's when Sherlock first saw the real Jim. Maybe that was the first time he hit Sherlock. And Sherlock didn't run away because he figures it was only because Jim was drunk. But then it started happening more often. Even when Jim was sober. And still Sherlock didn't leave.

John never really understood why victims of abuse didn't just run away. Was it out of love? Did Sherlock not leave because he simply loved Jim too much? Or perhaps it was fear? Sherlock was frightened that if he ran away Jim would hunt him down and beat him even harder?

The alarm finally rings and John has to roll out of bed to go shut it off.

"Mike, get up you lazy pig." John lifts his leg up to kick his roommate lightly in the side. Mike only mumbles and pulls the sheet over his head. John rolls his eyes. It isn't his responsibility if Mike is late to anything.

John is still half asleep during his genetics class. Thank god it's a lecture day instead of a lab day.

He eats lunch with his usual group of mates, and the chatter is rather idle. Clara expresses her anguish over failing a calculus test. Sarah invites them all to another party, but John turns her down.

He doesn't even see Sherlock at all that day. There isn't a single new message on his phone. Well then. If that's how Sherlock's going to be, John can be equally as stubborn.

The way John sees it, Sherlock needs to be taught a lesson. Sherlock is a classic spoiled kid from an obviously well-off family. That, combined with the power his brother has in the government, means Sherlock basically gets handed free passes to life. John wonders if Sherlock even had to apply to the university, or if his application was simply a formality to make it not seem like some sort of nepotism. John will not do the same. John will not be the one to apologize. If Sherlock is truly serious, if Sherlock really does want to pursue some sort of relationship with John, it's Sherlock himself who will have to speak up. Even if it takes a week.

* * *

And a week it does take.

John gets a message one late afternoon.

_Meet at the hill_

-SH

John tries not to get too excited.

John gets there first. He sits down on the grass of the hill as the sun begins to set. He's never seen many sunsets in hi life-or rather, he's never just sat there and watched the sun go down. He loves doing it, though, and wishes he could do it more often. Just sit there watching the sky slowly grow from a wide range of colors to a deep navy blue to an almost raven black. He loves watching the stars slowly start to appear one by one, illuminating the sky. More than anything, however, he loves that short moment when both the sun and the moon are present in the sky at the same time. When their cycles overlap. It's beautiful, like watching an old couple take turns guarding the sky.

The sentiment is over once John hears the rustle of grass from behind him. He slowly stands up and turns around so that he's facing Sherlock, draped in that heavy coat again. The wild curls on his head dance as wind rushes past them. His sharp cheekbones are lightly flushed from the cold sting of winter. His lips, with that perfect cupid's bow, are slightly chapped. John watches him dart his tongue out to lick across the lower lip in an attempt to moisturize it.

"John."

"Sherlock."

It's not a very romantic greeting. In fact, it seems almost hostile, but they both know it's far from it.

Silence falls upon them. But it isn't awkward silence. They're reading each other. John can see the apology in Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock can see the forgiveness playing at the corner of John's lips. Speaking is just a formality at this point.

Still, it is said. "I'm sorry." The words are a hoarse whisper.

"It's okay." John finally breaks into a smile.

"I threw it out," Sherlock says. "I threw it all out."

"I'm proud of you."

And then Sherlock furrows his eyebrows. His expression turns to concern. Fear, even. He parts his lips, but for the longest time, words don't come out. John stands there waiting for him to speak. And then he does. "John."

"Yes?"

"Are you…" Sherlock swallows like the words are painful in his throat. "Are you going to leave me?"

At that, John actually laughs. Sherlock doesn't seem half as amused.

John takes a couple steps towards Sherlock and wraps his arms around Sherlock's back, drawing the taller man into a tight hug. "Oh, Sherlock. You poor, stupid, deprived child."

Sherlock still looks confused. And perhaps a bit insulted.

John retracts the hug so that he can look Sherlock in the eyes again. The questioning expression upon Sherlock's face makes him laugh again. "Sherlock, this is fine. In normal relationships, people fight. It's healthy, you know? Blow off some steam. It's good to voice your opinion as a couple. It's okay. This isn't me breaking up with you."

The moment Sherlock's expression turns into one of relief, John can't help grabbing his face. He pulls Sherlock down so that he can kiss him. It's cold and harsh outside, but Sherlock's lips are warm and soft.

Sherlock hesitates for a moment, but eventually wraps his arms around John's upper back, fingers fisting into the material of John's overcoat.

It's the longest kiss they've ever shared.

* * *

That night, Sherlock begins his withdrawal.

He starts on the bed, sweating and moaning and begging for water. John immediately gets up to grab a quick glass of water, but when he comes back Sherlock is writhing on the floor. John decides the bed is too dangerous, in case Sherlock falls again, and instead situates him on the floor, wrapped up in blankets.

John holds him tight as Sherlock screams out and swears and croaks about how much he wishes he were dead. When Sherlock starts to cry, John kisses his sweaty forehead. Even when Sherlock tries to break free, even socking John in the jaw, John doesn't let go. He knows it must be awful. Sherlock must feel like hell and beyond. John won't let him go through with it alone.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock awakes to a massive pounding in his head and a horrid ache in his back. He's on the hard wooden floor, one of John's arms protectively draped across his chest. He's still cold and uncomfortable, but substantially better than last night. John's face is so close to his own, he can feel John's breath upon his cheeks. He had turned rather violent last night. There's a purple bruise beginning to form on the side of John's jaw. Sherlock must have hit him. And yet John still stayed. If that isn't loyalty, Sherlock didn't know what was.

He has this impending urge to kiss John. John's lips are right there, soft, slightly parted, so close. All Sherlock would had to do is move a little bit. And he does. He shifts onto his side to face John, their lips not even centimeters away from touching. Sherlock wants to. So bad. He ghosts over John's mouth. Just a little bit more. So close. So close.

And then Sherlock pulls away, struggling to sit up and carefully remove John's arm from around his torso. He can't do it.

When John wakes up, he's alone on the floor with a blanket draped across his body. He immediately scrambles to his feet when he realizes that Sherlock is gone.

Before John even walks into the living room, he can hear anguished moans and choked sobs. Stepping into the room he finds Sherlock slumped in the kitchen doorway with his back against the wall and his knees drawn into his chest. He's crying and he looks sick and awful, and John's heart actually breaks a little bit.

He approaches Sherlock, who croaks out "it hurts, John."

John falls to his knees to grab Sherlock and pull him into his chest. "I know," he whispers, stroking Sherlock's curly hair reassuringly. "I know."

* * *

"Fuck, you're a natural," Lestrade points out, amazed, although he had to pinch his nostrils closed with his fingers to keep the smell out.

John wipes up the vomit with no hesitation and actually laughs a little bit. "I've had practice. I'm pre-med, after all." He doesn't exactly know Lestrade well enough to spill his whole life story, more relevantly all the times he's had to clean up after his drunk-beyond-all-comprehension sister. "Besides, if you're a forensics major, shouldn't you start getting used to bodily fluids like this?"

Lestrade snorts. "Blimey, I'm really a pansy aren't I? Last year Sherlock dropped a bag of pig's blood all over the carpet and I fainted at the sight."

John laughs again. "That would have been amusing to see." He sort of feels bad for laughing and having a bit of fun while Sherlock's curled up in a ball on the floor writhing in pain, but just because Sherlock is miserable beyond belief, doesn't mean John has to be too. This is Sherlock's punishment for his bad decisions, after all.

"Thanks a ton, though," Lestrade says gratefully as John sprays the floor with some disinfectant. "I can't do half this stuff without freaking out. Last time this happened I had to call Mycroft and boy, was he pissed about it." He sighs sadly just then. "I'm going to make a crap police officer, aren't I?"

John shrugs. "Give it time. I'll bet you'll be the biggest, toughest, badass motherfucking DI London's ever seen."

Lestrade gives him a little half smile as a sign of gratitude.

By that time, Sherlock seems to have calmed down enough to slowly sit himself up. He's pale and sickly and skinnier than usual because John's having a hard time making him keep his food down. But despite his outward appearances, he seems to be calmer, more at peace.

Lestrade turns to him. "Feeling better, Sherlock?"

"Shut the fuck up Lestrade," Sherlock hisses in response, startling the two other men. "I know you're only here because your girlfriend dumped you last night."

Lestrade opens his mouth to ask, but Sherlock interrupts him to explain. "You usually smell like flowers and vanilla, not exactly a manly scent, but when you're sleeping with a girl who wears just that, it tends to stick. Today you smell like cheap men's cologne so you obviously haven't seen her since at least yesterday. Since you started dating her you've been taking care to be freshly shaven, but you haven't shaved this morning. You have no reason to, after all. There's a faint red mark on your left cheek, I can barely make out the finger marks, but they're there nevertheless. She slapped you rather hard, didn't she? Probably because you'd rather go out drinking with your forensics mates than watch some chick flick at her place, am I right? And judging by the veins in your right hand-."

"Okay!" Lestrade snaps to cut Sherlock off. "I get it. You're still an arsehole. Fuck, fine, if you're well enough to talk like that I'm leaving before you deduce everything about my sex life."

"Well, actually-."

With that being said, Lestrade leaves without so much as a hassle.

John and Sherlock are alone now. The silence is beautiful.

John clears his throat. "Thirsty?" He asks as if Sherlock hadn't just been a wriggling mess a minute ago.

"Parched," Sherlock responds.

John helps Sherlock to the sofa because Sherlock's legs are still a bit weak to walk on.

"Don't you have class?" Sherlock asks as John pours him a nice large glass of water.

"Don't you?" John grins as he walks back into the room to hand Sherlock the cup.

Sherlock takes it gratefully and downs the entire thing is no time at all.

They spend the entire afternoon watching crap telly together. And Sherlock only throws up twice.

At one point, John looks down to see Sherlock's hand shaking uncontrollably. His response is to grab that hand and intertwine their fingers, much to Sherlock's surprise. John can feel Sherlock's hand twitch almost violently, and he squeezes tight to let Sherlock know he's not ever going to let go. It's the most marvelous thing to feel Sherlock's fingers quiet themselves in John's hand slowly but surely, until they're almost completely still. His hand is still cold and clammy regardless, but John doesn't really seem to care about that.

The sound is muted because they don't actually care about what the hell anybody on the stupid show is saying. They see more entertainment in poking fun at all the characters.

"He's obviously not the boy's father," Sherlock points out sleepily. "You can tell by the turn-ups on his jeans."

"Mmm-hmm," John comments, equally as sleepy with his head resting on Sherlock's bony shoulder. One would think it would be highly uncomfortable, resting on something so lanky and bony, but John finds it rather comforting.

"John?" Sherlock says suddenly.

"Mmm?"

"Thank you."

"Mmm-hmm." John is too tired to mumble back a proper you're welcome, but he smiles nonetheless, happily accepting of Sherlock's rare gratitude.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock is physically unable to leave his dorm room for the next two days.

To save suspicion from being drawn upon the both of them, John goes to class during the day. During this time, he meets the famous Molly Hooper.

He runs into her completely by accident. She drops her bag and he stops to help her gather her items.

"Oh!" She says. "You're John Watson!"

John cocks his head to the side. "I'm sorry…who are you?"

"Molly," she clarifies, holding out her hand for him to shake. He does. "Molly Hooper. I've seen you and Sherlock together frequently. Not that I watch him frequently, it's just that we have a lot of similar classes and our paths meet quite a bit. I don't…I mean, I'm not…" She blushes, obviously embarrassed and wishing she hadn't said all that. But when she sees that John isn't laughing or looking at her strangely-in fact John has a rather kind smile on his face-she speaks again, her tone a little more concerned. "Um, speaking of which…Sherlock hasn't been to class recently. Is he okay? I mean, not that I'm worried too much. But well, I guess I am. He hardly ever eats. That's why I send him pastries. Although I guess pastries aren't the best things for a man to eat." She stammers a bit, realizing that she's babbling, and cuts back to her point. "I mean, is he all right?"

John's smile never falls. Molly is a kind looking girl, long straight hair pulled in a high ponytail and wearing a floral patterned skirt. Rather mousey and timid-looking, actually, but with that intelligent gleam in her eye. It's obvious she truly belongs in the science department. When first learning of Molly, John had pictured a wide-eyed rambunctious stalker type, but now he realizes that she really does just care for Sherlock, if she doesn't just love him with all her heart. John really does feel bad for her, not knowing that Sherlock is technically spoken for and everything. He doesn't think poor Molly would be able to last a day dating Sherlock.

"Oh, he's all right," he tells her. "Bit sick, that's all. He'll be up and about in no time."

"Ah," she nods. "Right then. Um, thanks. Uh, bye then." And with that, she awkwardly grips her bag and turns to leave. John watches her cute little ponytail swing with every step she takes. It's just a little reminder, reassurance if you will, that John isn't really technically gay, even though he's dating a bloke which is a pretty gay thing to do, because he still likes girls. Physically. Maybe.

From then on, Molly makes it a habit to try to find John once a day and ask of Sherlock's condition. John always gives her the same answer.

A week later you would never have thought Sherlock Holmes had just gone through the most awful withdrawal.

When Sherlock entered the lecture hall with John for the first time in over a week, quite nearly every pair of eyes was on the both of them.

It had already been spread that the infamous Sherlock Holmes had gotten sick. Missing classes was something Sherlock did often. But missing classes because of an illness? Unheard of. Perhaps it shocked the entire campus to learn that yes indeed, Sherlock Holmes was human.

After that, things feel back to normal. Classes, friends, Sherlock, the ordinary day of John Watson. Sherlock excelled in chemistry and failed miserably in literature.

Their relationship had rather improved. Sherlock had become quite fond of John's touch and no longer stiffened when John tried to touch him. Although he never initiated contact, he was now unhesitant to return it.

They're sitting on the floor of Sherlock's bedroom, a Cluedo board mapped out before them. It's been a rather frustrating game from the start.

John sighs in exasperation. "Dammit Sherlock, I keep telling you, the victim can't be the murderer!"

"It's the only possible explanation!" Sherlock defends himself.

"We are never, ever playing this game again," John promises.

So they settle for sitting on Sherlock's sofa in absolute silence. Perhaps their favorite pastime to do together. John wraps his arms around Sherlock's waist and neither of them speak to each other. They don't have to. Words are trivial. Meaningless. Sherlock wants to waste no time on speaking unless absolutely necessary. Sometimes he won't speak for days on end, Lestrade had once told John. Just another reason to label Sherlock as an enigma. It's mysteriously beautiful, actually.

John takes a look at his watch. "Shit," he swears, retracting himself from Sherlock. "It's getting late. I should be getting back." He plants a tiny kiss on Sherlock's brow bone and starts to get up.

It seems Sherlock isn't too fond of that notion because he grabs John's hand and pulls him back down onto the sofa. "No," he calls out, his voice almost strained. "Don't…"

John gives him an odd look. "What is it, Sherlock?"

"Don't go," Sherlock pleads. "Stay here. For the night. I don't want you to leave. Please."

There's nothing but pure innocence in those eyes. Nobody could resist a face like that. It's just not fair. John almost wants to defile it. "Okay," he whispers. "All right. I'll stay."

There are few things John likes seeing more than the relieved, content expression on Sherlock's face.

It was going to be innocent.

John swears.

He knows how delicate Sherlock must be towards sexual situations. He truly did just want to lay in bed with Sherlock and sleep with their limbs tangled around each other.

But then Sherlock goes and takes his shirt off and John can't help it. It's a natural reaction, after all.

John just can't stop himself from sitting Sherlock on the bed and bending down to press their lips together. He can't stop his hands from latching onto Sherlock's skin, grazing across his chest, pressing down on his shoulders. Gently guiding Sherlock down onto the bed.

John gets on top of him, straddling Sherlock's hips without ever breaking the kiss. He cups Sherlock's face and pries Sherlock's mouth open with his tongue, pressing in between Sherlock's lips. They don't make out often, and when they do, it's hardly with this amount of passion and vigor. John lets himself moan against Sherlock's lips, their tongues wrapping around each other.

John's hands leave Sherlock's face to travel down his torso instead. John slides his fingers across the smooth flesh, reveling in how soft Sherlock's skin is. He rubs his hands down Sherlock's nearly concave stomach and grabs Sherlock's slender, bony hips. All the while, they continue to kiss passionately, Sherlock allowing his arms to wrap around John's neck.

When John snakes his fingers below Sherlock's waistband, however, Sherlock freezes and pushes his hands against John's shoulders, breaking their kiss.

John can see the immediate fear in Sherlock's eyes. And there is only one man to blame.

"John," Sherlock warns him, his tone short and firm. "John, I'm not a virgin."

"What a coincidence, neither am I." John laughs, trying to lighten the mood. And then his smile disappears. "Sherlock," John whispers in the most reassuring tone he can muster. "I won't hurt you." He rubs the pads of his thumbs into Sherlock's hipbones softly, massaging the flesh of his pelvis. "I'm not like him. You know I'm not."

"I know," Sherlock answers, his voice equally as soft.

But John still looks concerned. "Do you want to stop? Because we could, you know. Any time you want. We can stop." Although stopping would be the least thing John would want himself, getting Sherlock over this abnormal fear of being touched was his main priority.

"No," is Sherlock's defiant answer. "No. I trust you." To prove this, he snakes his hands back up John's neck. Then, for the first time in this relationship, it is Sherlock who lifts his head to capture John's lips in a soft, tender kiss.

John is pretty much beyond ecstatic.

"_John," Sherlock moans as John rolls their hips together intimately. "Oh, John, please."_

"_Yes," John grunts, burying his head into Sherlock's shoulder. "Fuck. Anything. Anything, Sherlock. Oh god."_

That night, John learns two things. The first being that Sherlock does indeed give fantastic blowjobs. The second being that Jim Moriarty is a scumbag bastard who should be rotting in jail. The reason for this, of course, stemming from the fact that John revealed Moriarty's initials scarred into Sherlock's flesh on his hipbone, just below the waistband of his pants. It made John immensely angry, and he had kissed Sherlock hard and rough and swore over and over again, yelling out how much he was going to kill Moriarty if he ever got the chance.

John wakes up without a single article of clothing on. Sherlock is no where to be found. For a while, John wants to do nothing but lay there all day on Sherlock's bed, taking in the unique scent of Sherlock's entire being. And if he was lazy and didn't have class that afternoon, he just might have.

But alas he has to roll himself off the bed and yank on his trousers.

When he walks out of the bedroom, he finds Sherlock shirtless in the kitchen making coffee. Still slightly basking in that after-sex glow, John smiles warmly and walks up to the slender genius. He knows he isn't surprising Sherlock with his presence when he wraps his arms around Sherlock's waist and hugs him tight.

"Hello, John," Sherlock greets, pouring a steaming hot stream of coffee into two mugs.

"Hello, Sherlock," John mumbled, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's naked shoulder blade. "I have class soon."

Sherlock spins around in John's arms so that they're facing each other, handing John a hot cup of coffee. "Drink first."

"Of course," John grins up at him.

* * *

"You didn't come back last night," Mike points out the moment John steps through the door.

"Yes, thank you Captain Obvious," John rolls his eyes, the sarcasm blatant.

Mike frowns, not too keen on being insulted.

John sighs and gathers the notebook he needs for his anatomy class off of his desk. "I was at Sherlock's."

"All night?"

"Lost track of time."

"I see." After that, Mike drops the subject and John feels like he could get away with murder.


	12. Chapter 12

Needless to say, from that day forward John didn't have to worry about his sex life.

When John wakes up, Sherlock is never there at his side. Half the time he isn't even in the dorm. He doesn't leave a note or text that he's going out, and technically he's not obligated to because it's his own bloody room, but still most people would be infuriated or annoyed in the least. John doesn't seem to mind, though, that he often wakes up alone. Of course having a nice warm body to cuddle up against in the frosty mornings of January would be nice, but John understands that Sherlock simply isn't one to cuddle. John knows what he's dating. He knows Sherlock is unique. An oddball, really. One could take a look at him and believe he was an escaped mental patient. He just isn't normal. And perhaps that's what John loves the most about him.

John can hear the faint wails of sirens through the bedroom window. His first reaction is to scramble off the bed and frantically search for his clothes. He's awkwardly stepping into his sneakers and walking forward and pulling his sweater over his head all simultaneously and he's actually sort of glad Sherlock isn't here because he probably looks like an idiot right now and Sherlock would probably be laughing at him.

He scrambles down the steps of the dorm building and nearly slips down the stairs-thank god for railings. When he opens the door, the sirens get infinitely louder. He starts to panic, obviously, as anyone else would in a situation like this. His mind starts to wander. What if it's Sarah? What if she's been in some sort of accident? What if it's Mike? Or-and please god no-_what if it's Sherlock_?

So of course he runs in the direction of the sirens. Around him he can see other people running too, probably thinking the same thing he's thinking_. What if it's my friend? My loved one?_ John isn't alone, and for that he can rest assured.

There's a large crowd gathered in the center of the campus. John recognizes it as the spot where he and Sherlock officially became friends. The statue sculpted by Mycroft stands taller than the crowd, and John can't see where the fire is.

It's times like these that John curses his genetics and wishes he was just a little bit taller. He strains his neck to poke through the crowd, but with no avail.

Frustrated, he sighs and takes a step back. Practically the whole campus is here and he's not the only one struggling to see. Out of the corner of his eye he spots a rather tall, slightly portly young man-one he recognizes as being in his genetics class. Finally, a familiar face!

John taps the man on the shoulder, and they instantly meet gazes. "What the hell is going on?" John asks.

The man shrugs. "Apparently they've found a body."

"Jesus!" John yells out in surprise.

Just then, two figures emerge from the center of the crowd and begin to push their way through the crowd. John recognizes one as a certain slender, curly haired individual with whom he had engaged in rather intimate activities last night. He's extremely surprised when Sherlock walks right past him without noticing, his focus on the slightly taller, uniformed man walking beside him. The man's back is stiff and straight as a board, his hair buzzed short and clean, and although John's skills of deduction are far from Sherlock's, he can still infer that this man is tough and strictly no-funny-business.

"I was wrong last time," John can hear Sherlock say. "When I said the killer was alone. It's quite clear that he has a friend. Or a family member, or even an apprentice. Not an accomplice, though. There really was only one perpetrator. But certainly there is another out there who knows his secrets. Perhaps more than one."

"A copycat?" The other man asks as they continue walking away from the crowd. John decides to inconspicuously follow the pair.

"Perhaps," Sherlock muses. "Or maybe, and I know you won't like this prospect one bit, but maybe the killers are part of a larger organization."

"A serial killing organization?"

They stop in front of a police vehicle and turn to face each other. "Well, with the way the victims are connected, it's a plausible explanation," Sherlock explains.

They shake hands firmly and the other man nods. "Right. Well, I'll go break the news to the press. I hope you're in for another investigation?"

"Always," Sherlock grins.

The other man gives Sherlock a sort of playful salute as he steps into the car. "How's my son been getting along?"

"The same," Sherlock tells him. "His new girlfriend's been cheating on him since the start. I was just on my way to break it to him."

The man laughs. "I suppose us Lestrade's have always had such bad luck with women."

Sherlock gives a polite smile as the man drives away.

That's when John decides it's an appropriate time to run up to Sherlock. Sherlock doesn't seem surprised by John's presence at all. "That's DI Lestrade?" John asks, more for confirmation than anything.

"Of course," is Sherlock's response.

John exhales deeply. "Yikes." And then he furrows his eyebrows at Sherlock. "And what were you doing talking with him? Were you there, at the crime scene?"

"Naturally," Sherlock says. "I got his text early this morning. Woman. Shot once in the forehead but lying on the ground face down. I usually wouldn't be interested it these types of things, but the location of the murder and the circumstances of the victim are hardly coincidental with the murder a few years back."

"You mean the one when we were in secondary school?" John asks. He recalls the conversation with his friends where Sherlock had been rumored to have worked a case before he had even graduated. All he really remembered was that a girl had been shot, and it was unfortunate, and that was all he had really cared about. He hadn't known the victim personally so he didn't feel compelled to care much. He had seriously reconsidered applying to the university, but when the case had been closed and supposedly solved, John couldn't see any danger.

Sherlock nods.

"And who was the victim this time?" John is almost afraid to ask.

"Jennifer Wilson," Sherlock says without hesitation.

John's mouth is gaped wide open.

"You're familiar with her?"

John slowly shakes his head, but hesitates before he speaks. "No. No, not really. She was uh…she is-er- was in my neuroscience class last year. We were dissection partners once, I think. At the beginning of the semester."

Sherlock's face is completely devoid of any emotion, but John can see in his eyes that he's at least trying to be sympathetic. "I'm sorry," he manages to get out rather mechanically.

John shakes his head quickly. "No, no. No it's not your fault. It's um…wow." Another sharp exhale.

Sherlock cautiously places a supporting hand on John's upper back. "Do you need to sit down?"

"No," John says immediately, but then he feels his knees wanting to buckle underneath him and instantly changes his mind. "Yes. Yes I do."

So they walk back to Sherlock's dorm and Sherlock makes some nice, calming tea.

"Don't go to class today," Sherlock pleads as he hands John a mug. It's perhaps unsightly to harbor tea in a coffee cup, but of course college budgets are always tight so John doesn't make a fuss.

As John holds the cup up and takes a sip, Sherlock sits beside him on the sofa and takes the liberty to press his lips softly against John's temple in some effort of reassurance because quite honestly, Sherlock sort of sucks with words. His fumbling around trying to get John to feel better actually does lighten John's heart, and he can't help but smile against his cup.


	13. Chapter 13

The morning after, John and Sherlock walk down to the coffee shop, pretty much the closet thing they ever get to an actual date because Sherlock rarely even feels the need to leave campus.

"It's a body dump," Sherlock explains to John as they walk briskly. "Same as last time. It explains why she was on her face when she should have fallen backwards after being shot in the face. She wasn't killed here, naturally. There's far too little blood splatter. Inconsistent with the splatter that would have occurred if she had been shot on the spot. She was killed elsewhere and carried to the foot of the statue, where she was left. The killer wanted the body to be obvious. He wanted it to be found."

"You keep saying he," John points out. "You know for a fact it's a man?"

"Of course," Sherlock scoffs, as if it should be obvious. "A female would have had to drag the victim from the place of murder to the foot of the statue. Because there are no traces of blood or skid marks from where the heels of the victim's shoes would have scraped across the concrete if she was dragged, she was obviously carried, indicating that the killer is indeed male."

To their surprise, Lestrade is sitting there at a table near the door of the coffee shop, his eyes fixed on the both of them as they enter.

Sherlock immediately groans. "Oh god, here we go. And why are you here?"

Lestrade's response is to ignore Sherlock and turn his attention to John. "Oh hello there, John." John gives him a little nod of acknowledgement.

However, Sherlock is clearly unamused. "I'm waiting for an answer, Lestrade, why are you here?"

Lestrade throws his hands up in defense. "Can't a bloke get a coffee every once in a while?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "There's a fresh coffee stain on the cuff of your jacket. You've clearly already had your coffee."

"Then maybe I fancied another one. What do you call this?" Lestrade inquires, holding up the Styrofoam cup of liquid in front of him.

"A prop," Sherlock explains. "You ordered it hot but that was an hour ago because it's no longer steaming and you haven't drunk a single drop. Clearly you bought it so you could have an excuse to sit there and wait for me. Is this your father? Is he making you spy on me? Is this his way of making sure I'm not blurting out police business? Is that what you're calling yourself Greg?"

Both John and Lestrade are a bit taken aback by that comment. John gives Sherlock an extremely questioning look. "That's…that's his name!"

This time it's Sherlock's turn to look shocked. "Is it?"

"Yes!" Lestrade practically snaps at him. "Blimey! Seven years, you'd think you'd be just a bit bothered to know who I was! What the hell did you think my name was?"

"I wasn't aware you had one." And the worst part is that John can't tell if Sherlock is joking or not.

Lestrade pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation, obviously hurt but at the same time able to understand Sherlock's abnormality. "And no, it's not my father. He wouldn't ask that of me. He'd never ask anything of me. That's why I'm here, you git!"

Sherlock takes a step back in realization and nods his head slowly. "Ah. I see. You're jealous."

"What?" Lestrade stands up abruptly, very nearly spilling the cold coffee all over the tabletop and frightening the few customers in the shop.

"You're here to inquire about the case because you can't understand why, if he was going to allegedly consult with a non-police-affiliated student, he would allow me access to the crime scene instead of you, his own son, so you've come to ask me everything I know about the case and the previous case because you believe that with the information you'll be able to solve the case yourself and show off to your father. You're afraid I'm more qualified to follow in your father's footsteps than you are."

Sherlock's face is, as it often is, emotionless. His voice mechanically and matter-of-factly and Lestrade opens his mouth to say something, but he can't think of anything because he knows Sherlock has gotten everything right again, so he clenches his jaw tight and exhales sharply through his nose. His hands are firm fists at his sides and his eyebrows are deeply furrowed as he snaps out angrily at Sherlock. "You are the most arrogant, egocentric, psychopath I have ever had the misfortune to meet."

"I'm not a psychopath," Sherlock defends himself in that monotone I-don't-care voice of his. "I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research."

With that being said, Lestrade is fed up with being insulted and shuffles past Sherlock, making sure to collide shoulders with the idiot hopefully hard enough to bruise him.

John watches Lestrade leave in a huff before turning his attention to Sherlock. He shakes his head in disbelief. "You're such a dick."

"He'll get over it," Sherlock assures him. "He always does."

"That doesn't give you the right to stomp all over him!" John yells. "You're lucky he keeps coming back after you're such a massive arsehole to him!" And when Sherlock doesn't reply back, he scoffs and brushes past the genius as well, intent on following Lestrade.

He finds Lestrade at the center of campus, hands shoved in pockets and eyes glaring at the yellow caution tape wrapped around the premises. Mycroft's statue stands tall, almost like it's protective of the crime scene. The body is gone-white tape replaces its silhouette. Several investigators work quietly, swabbing at samples of blood around the concrete, dusting off for fingerprints on a bench.

"He doesn't mean it," John calls out. "Any of it."

"Don't you dare apologize for him," Lestrade says, still keeping his attention focused on the crime scene. "He doesn't deserve to have anyone going apologizing for him."

John walks up to stand beside Lestrade. Their eyes are fixated on the quiet hustle around. The hype has died down, and although people give the area a fleeting glance, it's relatively empty. The parents of the victim have already been informed. All her friends are probably with her parents, and they're all probably mourning. It's quite a morbid thought.

"Isn't it soothing?" Lestrade suddenly asks, although it isn't really much of a question. Rather rhetorical, actually, because he doesn't wait for John's reply before he continues. "I know it must be a horrible thing to say. After all, a girl was just murdered and everything. But I like watching them work. They seem to really love their job. It's actually kind of really interesting to think about, how their careers revolve around dead people. Can you imagine what they'd do if murder didn't exist?"

"Become politicians?"

Lestrade grins down at John, who smirks back.

"He's right, you know," Lestrade points out.

"Sorry?"

"About me not being worth following in my father's footsteps."

"Rubbish," John assures him.

"No, really," Lestrade insists. "I wince at the sight of blood, strong smells make me vomit, I'm really not fit to work around crime scenes." John parts his lips to say something, but Lestrade isn't finishes. "But you know what?"

"What?" John asks, not to humor him, but rather out of genuine curiosity.

Lestrade gives a short laugh. "Give me two years. Two more years and I'll walk out of this damn university and my dad will be ripping off his badge and begging me to take his job."

John slaps Lestrade playfully on the back. "That's the spirit."

John hurriedly grabs his coat and rushes towards the door.

"Going to Sherlock's again?" Mike asks, looking up from his laptop curiously.

John nods. "Yeah. Not the best idea to leave him alone when he's like this. Hasn't eaten in two days and everything."

Mike nods, but John can still see the suspicion on his face as he exits the dorm.

When he get's to Sherlock's, he finds a tall stick figure sprawled out upon the sofa. Long, slender fingers are pressed together underneath a sharp defined chin, and if John didn't know Sherlock better, he would have assumed Sherlock was praying to God.

"Ah, there you are," Sherlock remarks. "I told you to text DI Lestrade an hour ago."

John cocks his head to the side, confused. "I wasn't here an hour ago. You couldn't be bothered to get up and get your phone off the table and text him yourself?"

"No," is Sherlock's response.

"You lazy git."

"There wasn't any hurry."

John scoffs. But he ends up grabbing Sherlock's phone and texting Lestrade's father anyways.

They meet up with DI Lestrade at the blocked off crime scene.

The older man frowns upon meeting John's presence. "He can't be here."

"He's with me," Sherlock assures him.

DI Lestrade sighs. "Look, I can't have you kids running around my crime scenes like this. I'm already making an exception for you, Sherlock."

"I can leave," John points out, not wanting to get involved with any trouble. "I can just wait at my dorm."

Apparently, Sherlock will have none of that. "He's. With. Me." His eyes are as defiant as his tone, and if DI Lestrade is able to read in-between his lines, he should be able to understand Sherlock's policy. Without saying a word, he is able to convey to the inspector that if he wants Sherlock's intellect, John will stay, otherwise they will both walk away and the case might ever be solved.

So the DI reluctantly waves his hand about. "Fine, fine. Just don't go off telling your friends."

"Won't tell a soul," John promises. "I swear."

"Yeah, yeah." DI Lestrade turns his attention back to Sherlock. "So?"

Sherlock straightens his back before he begins speaking. "Through our initial investigation, we both concluded that the two victims-the one from three years ago and our most recent-were connected due to their physical appearance-long light brown hair, thin and petite figure, rather brightly patterned wardrobes-but more importantly due to their frequent visits to the bar across the street. Correct?"

DI Lestrade raises a neatly groomed eyebrow. "Yeah…?"

Sherlock continues. "Three years ago we found our perpetrator working at that very bar."

"Yeah," the older man agrees. "We checked the bar yesterday though. All the employees have an alibi."

"That's the thing," Sherlock says. "Three years ago the murderer was an employee. This murderer, of course, isn't an employee but rather a frequent customer. A rather dedicated customer, I should say, if he's been going to the same bar for at least three years-probably longer. I'm prospecting that our criminals are linked through a mutual friendship."

"Right then," DI Lestrade nods. "I'll get the names of the regulars and check their alibis. Thanks, boys." He clicks his heels together and turns to walk away. A few steps later, however, he looks back over his shoulder and gives Sherlock a concerned look. "Oh and, Sherlock, do be careful this time. I don't think your brother has quite forgive me since then."

Sherlock's only response is to twist his face at the very mention of his blood relative.

When the inspector leaves, John turns to Sherlock. "What happened last time?"

Sherlock shrugs and bends over to slide out from underneath the yellow caution tape. "Nothing of importance. I might have gotten into a fight with the perpetrator."

"A fight!" John gasps aloud, scrambling to follow behind Sherlock as they start walking.

"The hospital bills were hardly enough to put a dent in Mycroft's wallet."

"The hospital!" John emphasizes, mortified. "My god Sherlock, you have absolutely no respect for your own life don't you?!" It's a rhetorical question.

Sherlock actually laughs a little bit. "You weren't in my life three years ago, were you?"

John freezes in his tracks and watches as the gap between Sherlock and him grows slowly wider. It clicks in his mind that Sherlock might as well have confessed his undying love for John just then and John needs a bit of time to process it. John scoffs a little bit, shake his head, and then bursts out into a huge grin as he chases after Sherlock again.

Sherlock rolls his eyes as John catches up. "Ugh. Could you be a little less cheery on a Monday morning?"

"Why the hell would I want to do that?" John asks, his smile never faltering.

Sherlock drops John in front of the medical building for John's next class. Viral Diseases isn't exactly his favorite class, but John's perhaps too ecstatic to even care. "I love you," he suddenly blurts out, and he's infinitely glad that no one was around to hear it.

"That's nice," is Sherlock's indifferent answer as he turns and walks away. But John knows he's secretly happy John had said it.


	14. Chapter 14

"You really have been spending an awful lot of time with Sherlock lately," Mike observes.

He, Clara, and Sarah have gathered for a study party of sorts.

John just reaches around for one of the cookies Clara had baked for the occasion. "Am I?" The others all exchange a curious glance with each other. John freezes mid-bite and rolls his eyes. "My god, can't a bloke hang out with a mate once in a while?"

"You hardly come home at night," Mike points out.

"Sherlock doesn't sleep," John explains. "He's fucking nocturnal or something. I bet if I didn't give him company he'd get bored and relapse or something. He's been doing quite well off the drugs."

Clara looks at John questionably. "You know, rumor has it that Sherlock quit the drugs because of you."

"Does it matter why he stopped?" John scoffs, offended that his friends are actually teaming up against him like this.

"Well…I guess not…" Clara mumbles.

Sarah on the other hand, is a bit more blunt with her approach. She comes straight out and asks "are you two dating or something?"

John is suddenly pulled into an inner confliction. He thought he'd been doing a pretty good job of keep his relationship with Sherlock a secret. He knows Sherlock wouldn't mind being publicized-his name is already smeared with rumors, why not just throw another one on top-but John has a reputation. He'd already been getting stares for even befriending Sherlock, imagine how people would react if they ever found out they were an actual couple.

On the other hand, John is not a practiced liar. He's lived his entire life believing that it's a horrible thing to lie to people. Suppressing the truth, sure, but outright lying about a huge part of your life, especially to a friend or family member was something John could never do.

So John swallows hard and braces himself for whatever reactions his friends might have as he finally replies, "and if we are?"

Their reactions are immediate. Clara gasps. Mike lets out a whistle and sits back in his chair in shock. Sarah covers her mouth with her hands and stares at John with wide eyes.

Silence falls upon the four of them.

And then Sarah stands up abruptly and runs out of the room.

John watches her leave, quite confused.

Clara catches his puzzled gaze and frowns at him, looking quite sorry for him. "Oh, John…" she says somberly.

"You're an idiot," Mike informs John.

"Excuse me?" John asks, quite offended.

Mike points at the door that Sarah had run out of. "She's in love with you, you git!"

John's eyes widen as the realization sinks in. "Oh god," he gasps.

"Yeah," Mike nods, as if Sarah's infatuation should have been obvious.

"Oh god," John repeats, scrambling up to his feet. "Oh god oh god." He begins to chant as he runs out of the room and through the hallway, looking for any sign of Sarah.

He finds her at the bottom of the stairs, near the entrance to the dorm building, her back against the wall and her arms hugging her legs into her chest with her head on her knees. He can already hear her sobs echoing through the hall.

When he starts to walk down the stairs he knows Sarah can hear him, but she chooses to ignore it, continuing her cries.

John stands above her now. He hesitates, but crouches down so that he's on her level. It's easier to talk this way, after all. He opens his mouth to say something, closes it, and licks his lips nervously. He then manages to force out her name. "Sarah…?"

"Stop," she immediately replies without looking up.

John has half a mind to listen and shut his mouth, but Sarah is an extremely important friend and he doesn't care much to lose her. "No, I…" He sighs sympathetically. "I'm sorry."

This time Sarah does look up. The evidence of her crying is blatantly obvious, and she wears an almost angry expression on her face. She slowly shakes her head at John. "Why the hell are you apologizing?"

John is taken aback. Why was he apologizing? He really had nothing to apologize for. He stammers a bit. "I…um…I guess…" he struggles to find the right words. "Uh, sorry. For um, not noticing."

Sarah lets out a rude laugh. "You better be."

"What?" John looks confused.

"You're an idiot," Sarah insults him through a sob.

"Sarah I-."

But John is cut off. "Shut up." Sarah shakes her head again.

"I understand if you want to leave," John says, although he truly doesn't want her to.

"Don't," Sarah commands him. "Don't even. This is my problem. Not your. I…" She sniffles a bit. "I'm furious, quite honestly. You're too good for him. He doesn't deserve you. Then again you're too good for me too."

"Sarah, that's not true-." But again John is interrupted.

"Are you happy?" Sarah asks, completely sincere.

John blinks. "Uh…well…yeah." He repeats his answer again. "Yeah, I am."

And with that, Sarah manages to smile a little bit. "All right then. Come here you fucking idiot." She holds her arms out. John doesn't hesitate to hug her back in the slightest. He pulls her into his chest and her tears soak through his sweater but none of that really matters. Of course John feels bad, as he always does when he has to break a heart, but he feels assured that through it he didn't have to lose one of his best friends.

They hug for a rather long time. Sarah is actually the first to pull away. She laughs a bit and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. "Ugh," she says to herself. "I must look so ugly right now."

"Extremely," John teases, planting a sympathetic kiss to her forehead.

Sarah sniffles one last time. "I...I won't tell anyone. About you and Sherlock, I mean. If you don't want. I'm not a bitch like that."

John gives a little chuckle. "Thanks."

* * *

John's girl problems just don't seem to disappear.

He and Sherlock walk briskly down the sidewalk together as Sherlock tries to work out an issue. DI Lestrade had sent a frustrating text a while ago stating that all the regular customers at the bar had alibis as well, and none of them contradicted each other.

"It doesn't make sense," Sherlock mumbles to himself. "How is it possible that they all have alibis?"

"How do you mean?" John asks.

"It's like all of them made sure that they were in an area where they could be witnessed. To make sure they had an alibi at the time of the murder. Almost like…like it was staged."

"Well," John muses. "Even if it was all staged, it doesn't help because it still means they couldn't possibly have killed Jennifer."

Sherlock shakes his head. "No no no. It's one of them. I'm sure of it. Someone is lying. Somebody. A customer or an employee. I can't tell yet. I need to speak with them myself. I'd be able to catch the liar in a matter of seconds."

Just then, Sherlock's phone drops out of his pocket. It only takes him a few steps to notice it, but by the time he's turned around to pick it up, it's already in the hands of someone else.

"Irene."

John looks at Sherlock, then at the woman holding the phone, back to Sherlock, and back to the woman. Dark brown hair twisted and pinned back neatly. A rather curvaceous body shown off by her tight fitting clothing choice. Her lips are bright red. Her fingers are long and slender around the phone, much like Sherlock's fingers are.

Irene Adler. More commonly known around campus as just 'The Woman." She's rumored to be an openly promiscuous bisexual who will sleep with anything that breathes-but they come to her, not the other way around. She's known to be quite intelligent and a master of blackmailing whoever is in her bed. The gossip queen of university. John had never seen her in person, but he had heard some pretty intimidating stories, and now that he's face to face with her, he's even more intimidated.

"Sherlock."

John turns back to Sherlock. "You two know each other?"

Sherlock's eyes are still locked on her as he answers John's question. "I helped her get away when she got involved with some rather bad people last year."

"Correction," Irene retorts immediately. "You scared away from rather valuable customers and I lost the chance to collect some rather valuable information."

"Blackmail material."

"Information," Irene emphasizes firmly.

"Give me my phone," Sherlock demands, holding out his arm.

Irene is quick to snap her arm away, however, pulling the phone into her chest. "No," she defies him playfully.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asks through gritted teeth, obviously annoyed.

Irene taps his phone thoughtfully against her chin. "I seem to be doing quite badly in my sociology class. It's not my favorite, you see, and I can't be bothered to do much work."

"I can't raise your marks," Sherlock tells her.

"No," she agrees. "No you can't. But your brother can."

Sherlock scoffs. "He will do no such thing."

"Really?" Irene raises an eyebrow. "Well then I wonder just how waterproof this phone is."

"Fine!" Sherlock suddenly gives in. "Fine. I'll somehow persuade my brother to get you what you want." His face twists at just the thought of having to converse with Mycroft. "Just give me my phone."

"Are you going to beg me?" Irene asks, amused.

"I wouldn't beg you if my life was in your hands," Sherlock snarls.

"Oooh," Irene grins. "Feisty. I like that in a man. I could have all sorts of fun with you. For instance, those cheekbones. Oh, I bet I could cut myself slapping those. Would you like me to try?" She holds out the phone almost regretfully, and then her eyes catch John, who is standing there with his hands in fists and his jaw tightly clenches, and she smirks. "But…I see you're spoken for. Pity. I wouldn't think of you to go for someone so…normal."

"Kindly go fuck yourself," Sherlock snaps at her.

"Perhaps I will." She gives the both of them another playful smirk before walking away, swinging her hips with perhaps a bit too much vigor.

Sherlock immediately starts walking in the opposite direction again.

John quickly catches up with him. "You didn't tell me you were in acquaintance with Irene Adler," he points out.

"We are far from acquaintances," is Sherlock's response. "Now let's go," he demands. "I have the impending urge to screw you into the sheets."

John shrugs. "I'm down with that."


	15. Chapter 15

It's the middle of the night when Sherlock's phone rings.

Only, it isn't Sherlock's usual ringtone.

John, although excruciatingly sleepy, opens one eye in confusion. "Sherlock, did your phone just…?"

"Moan?" Sherlock finishes John's sentence. "Indeed. It seems Irene Adler is a master at sleight of hand. Changed my message tone without me even noticing.

"Are you going to get it?" John asks, already knowing the answer as he snuggles himself up against Sherlock's bare chest comfortably. He almost doesn't want Sherlock to move. It's extremely rare that Sherlock is still in bed by the time John wakes, and even if it is in the middle of the night, it's a rather nice feeling. He strokes Sherlock's unruly hair soothingly. Everything is at peace.

"Of course." To prove his point, Sherlock rolls to his side to grab his phone off the nightstand and John sighs in disappointment as he loses physical contact.

Sherlock reads over the text and then his face turns distraught.

John sits up and rubs at his eyes sleepily. "What is it, Sherlock?"

"It's DI Lestrade," Sherlock says. He turns to face John. "They've found another body."

"Oh my god."

* * *

John is afraid Sherlock might actually keel over the moment they reach the body.

The crime scene is different. The body was found at the front gates of the university this time, although the cause of death is still a bullet to the forehead. The victim is lying face down, but Sherlock can already recognize the figure.

"Jesus Christ," John breathes out in shock, grabbing onto Sherlock's arm for support.

"A student walking back from a party discovered the body," DI Lestrade explains. "He was rather drunk, but I don't think he disturbed the crime scene-hey, are you boys all right?"

Even Sherlock has a vacant expression on his face, his eyes like they're soulless and empty.

"Sherlock?" The investigator repeats. "Sherlock, do you know this woman?"

Sherlock struggles to stay collected. He swallows harshly before he slowly nods his head. "Yes."

"So you can identify her?"

Again, Sherlock swallows and nods. He hesitates before he speaks like he's almost unsure of his own mind-something he rarely does. "Adler." His voice is almost a whisper. "Irene Adler."

"A friend of yours?" The investigator asks.

Sherlock shakes his head. "No."

"I see. Well then. Any idea as to why the situation is different?"

Sherlock is slow to react. But he reminds himself that he is in the middle of a case and he must not seem distraught. "It isn't," he explains. "Not at all."

"Maybe the killer changed the scenery to throw us off?"

"Of course not, don't be daft," Sherlock sneers. "Changing the scenery would do little to change the facts. He had every intention of dumping the body at the foot of the statue."

DI Lestrade seems extremely lost. "But the body isn't at the statue."

"Because the killer ran out of time," Sherlock explains. "Of course he was going to dump the body at the foot of the statue. But he was going to get caught. He could see your little witness approaching him so in a panic he dumped the body at the foot of the gate and ran off. Otherwise things would have gone according to plan and nobody would have discovered the body until early morning."

The inspector nods his head in understanding. "All right then. I uh…are you sure you're okay?"

When John looks down, he realizes that Sherlock's knees are shaking. He turns to DI Lestrade. "I think he needs a bit of rest," he says, firmly grasping Sherlock's arm to support him in case he buckled over. "Lack of sleep and everything."

"I see." The inspector nods again. "Well, whenever you're ready, the investigation is waiting."

"Thank you," John thanks him, and then he guides Sherlock away from the scene.

"Are you okay?" John asks, sitting Sherlock down on the sofa.

Sherlock nods. "Yes, yes I'm fine." Still, he looks like he's in shock. John can't imagine what Sherlock must be feeling. After all, the last thing he had ever said to Irene was that he wished she would go fuck herself.

"Sherlock…" John sighs, genuinely concerned. Just like the first time, when John had been in shock over Jennifer's death and Sherlock had handed up a heartwarming coffee mug of tea, John hands over to Sherlock a very similar cup of tea and sits beside him.

John rubs Sherlock's back reassuringly, but Sherlock just sits there with the tea in his hands, slowly cooling off and completely untouched. It's actually really unsettling, watching Sherlock come undone. His usual confidence being drained from him and his face looking like he had nothing left to live for. It rattles John's nerves. So John does what he swore he would never do. He holds out a cigarette to Sherlock.

Sherlock looks at him oddly, like he can't believe John is letting him do this.

"Just this once," John warns him.

Sherlock's fingers wrap around the cigarette gratefully.

* * *

_Did he take it?_

-GL

_Yeah_

-JW

_Shit_

-GL

* * *

From then on, everyone was under quarantine. The gates of the university were locked. Nobody was allowed in or out unless they had a student or faculty ID card that they could show to a guard who was hired and posted at the gate. Everything is in a state of chaos and students are left in fear of their lives.

Sherlock is also under quarantine. He isn't allowed to go anywhere but the loo without either John or Lestrade keeping an eye on him.

"It's for your own good," John explains. Since Sherlock had taken the cigarette, he was susceptible to relapse, and John wanted to make sure it never happened.

Sherlock is undoubtedly frustrated. He paces back and forth in the bedroom talking to himself.

"Sherlock," John sighs in exasperation. "Please go to sleep."

"How?" Sherlock only repeats. "It doesn't make any sense!"

"Yes, yes, you can figure it out tomorrow."

"And what if they're another victim tomorrow, John?"

John gives him a puzzled look. "They've locked the entire university down."

"That's just it," Sherlock explains. "The perpetrator is already inside."

"What?" John gasps in surprise.

Sherlock sighs. "The blood, John, the blood! The killer's clothes were stained with Irene's blood when he had to carry her. When the witness was about to catch him, he threw her body onto the ground and ran. But where? Everyone assumes he ran away from the university in fear. But he didn't. There were a few blood drops in front of Irene's body, within the gates of the campus, too far to have splattered when the killer dropped her body. That means the blood had dripped from his clothes as he ran _towards_the school. Not away from. Closing off the gates won't do a dammed thing, John, because he's already here!"

"Oh my god," John yells out in horror.

Sherlock scratches his head violently in frustration and growls deeply. "There are so few people in the world as sick as-." Just then, his entire body freezes in place and he stops mid-sentence.

John blinks in confusion. "…Sherlock?"

"Oh…" Sherlock whispers. And then again, louder. "Oh." And then he's chanting "No no no no no no no no no" as he runs into the living room to grab his coat.

"Sherlock!" John cries out, running after him. "Where the hell are you going?"

"Don't follow me," is Sherlock's only response.

So of course John has to follow him.

It's cold and windy and blimey is that snow? It is, and John's still chasing after Sherlock, calling out his name over and over in desperation. His vision is already bad from the surrounding darkness of the night, but once it starts to blizzard, he loses all sight of Sherlock. He's just as fast, he could catch up with Sherlock on any other given day, but the snow is impossible and after an hour of searching, John has to give up and reluctantly go back to his dorm to wait.

* * *

Sherlock knows exactly what he's looking for, and it doesn't take him that long to find out where.

He ends up circling around the entire campus before it finally dawns on him. Without Sherlock there, John would have gone back to his own dorm, leaving Sherlock's empty and vulnerable. Sherlock doesn't have a roommate. He scares all his away. There wouldn't be anyone to interfere.

Sherlock runs back to his dorm faster than ever before.

"Did you really think I'd left for America?" A voice calls out the exact moment Sherlock sets foot in the doorway, and Sherlock immediately solves the case.

"Really Sherlock, you're getting sloppy."

Sherlock doesn't need to turn on the lights to know who he's facing, but he flicks the switch nonetheless. "You…" he swallows harshly. "Three years ago, too?"

"Call it my gift to you, the puzzle you need to satisfy your otherwise ordinary life," Moriarty explains, standing in front of the sofa in a rather dapper grey suit and his hands in his pockets with a smug look upon his face. "Everything was staged, Sherlock. It was a show. A show. I'm not the killer, I can tell you right now. I can tell you the name of the killer right now, if you wish. Or perhaps you've already figured it out? Anyways, you can't trace this back to me. I've been very thorough. You have nothing but spectral evidence, and last I heard, that sort of crap wasn't allowed in court. Did I impress you? Have you been entertained?"

"You're sick," Sherlock hisses.

"And what does that make you?" Moriarty suddenly snaps, taking a few steps so that he's standing there right in front of Sherlock with absolutely no regard for personal space. He's shorter than Sherlock, but in terms of intimidation he's just as tall-if not taller. He grabs Sherlock's chin between his fingers forcefully, pulling Sherlock's face up to him. "I did this for you," Moriarty hisses through his teeth. "Because I know you. You're just like me. You need this. You need this game. You feed off the puzzle just as much as I do. You are me."

And then he's bending forward to capture Sherlock's lips in an almost tender kiss. Sherlock immediately freezes, but doesn't move because he knows what Moriarty will do if he even tries. Moriarty takes his time prying Sherlock's lips open, gently biting down on Sherlock's lower lip and tugging-just a bit. "Oh Sherlock," he whispers against Sherlock's mouth. "I'm going to burn you." He licks the swollen skin of Sherlock's lower lip. "I am going to burn the heart out of you."

"I've been informed I don't have one," Sherlock imitates Moriarty's whisper, his voice as mechanical and monotone as can be.

Moriarty laughs into Sherlock's mouth. "Oh, but we both know that's not entirely true."

Suddenly, it clicks in Sherlock's mind and his eyes grow wide in fear. He immediately pushes away from Moriarty. "You…don't you dare lay a finger on John!" He snaps. And then he clarifies, "Directly or indirectly or otherwise!"

Moriarty is smirking again. "Then come back and play with me."

"Is that your bargain?" Sherlock snarls between his teeth.

"Oh Sherlock, you know me so well."

"What if I refuse?"

Moriarty gives out a short, amused laugh. "Oh my dear Sherlock. If you refuse, John isn't the only who's going to rot in the ground."

"Lestrade," Sherlock gasps out.

"I'll mail his head to his daddy."

Sherlock doesn't even hesitate to say "fine." Of course he instantly regrets it, but once the words slip from his lips he can't exactly take them back.

Moriarty's smirk turns into a more of an evil grin as he wraps his arms around Sherlock's waist to pull the two of them closer together. "Excellent," he growls softly into Sherlock's ear. And Sherlock shudders.


	16. Chapter 16

The next morning, John bursts through Sherlock's door just as Sherlock is trying to delicately drop acid onto rare species of mushrooms.

"Sherlock!" John calls out. "You've done it! It's all over campus!" He laughs, running up to Sherlock and pulling him into a tight hug. "They arrested Sebastian Moran early this morning. How on earth did you figure it out? Ha! I don't care!" John eagerly grabs Sherlock's face and kisses him hard, full of energy and excitement.

He stops when he realizes Sherlock isn't reacting, though.

"Sherlock…?" John asks hesitantly, his hands on Sherlock's shoulder and his eyes fixed on trying to read Sherlock's face-with no avail of course.

Sherlock is a statue. An emotionless brick wall. Any other time John would have been unaffected, but right now it's actually extremely scary. "Hey," John tries to get his attention. "Hey, are you with me? Sherlock, are you listening?"

"John, I don't love you anymore."

John blinks once. Then twice. Then his lips part and he narrows his eyes. "Is this some sort of joke?"

"Do I ever joke?" Sherlock questions.

Of course when John tries to read Sherlock's face, he can't. Sherlock is just as expressionless as ever and it truly infuriates John to no end. So John presses his lips into a thin line. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm breaking up with you."

"Bollocks," John snaps.

"I am."

"Why?" John almost screams. This can't be happening to him. It just can't.

Sherlock stares John straight in the eyes as he explains. "Jim is back from America."

John's eyes grow wide in disbelief. "And so you're…" He clenches his jaw a bit. "So you're just going to run back into his arms? Just like that?"

"Yes," is Sherlock's blatant response.

"And what about me?" John asks in desperation. "What was I? Some sort of…entertainment? Something to keep you busy?"

"Yes," Sherlock repeats.

"Fuck you!" John yells, slamming his fist on the table. And then he harshly swallows. His tone lowers. "He beat you."

Sherlock doesn't respond.

"He raped you," John hisses, his teeth as clenched as his hands are.

"Call it Stockholm's if you want."

John bites his lower lip, exhaling sharply in anger. "After everything."

"It's all a lie, John." Sherlock's voice never even wavers as he speaks.

John scoffs. "And you didn't even bother to ask how I felt about any of it? Do I even matter to you? Do you even care about anything I've ever said, anything I've ever done for you?"

Sherlock doesn't respond.

"So that's it then? Just like that?"

Still no response.

John wants to explode. He shakes his head at the floor. "Fine. Fine then. You machine. You go back to that abusive son of a bitch, see if I give a damn. You're on your own this time and I'm not running to comfort your arse when he beats you half to death."

"Alone is what I have," Sherlock says mechanically. "Alone protects me."

"Nope." John grabs his jacket and clicks the door open. "Friends protect people. Too bad you haven't got any." And with that, he's gone.


	17. Chapter 17

**THIS IS A DOUBLE UPLOAD! DON'T FORGET CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

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**X**

Sherlock stops going to class. John figures he wouldn't come to the biology lecture, if only to avoid John, but one day Molly catches him and informs him that Sherlock hasn't been to his other classes either.

"Is he sick again?" Molly asks, that genuinely sincere concern gleaming in her innocent eyes.

"How the hell should I know?" John knows he shouldn't snap at the poor girl. It's a horrible thing to do, and he can see the hurt in her eyes after he yells it and it makes him feel like a terrible person. He's just been so angry lately. He can't really help it much.

But really, how would John know? Sherlock isn't his responsibility anymore. He's done worrying about the bastard. He doesn't care if Sherlock starves himself to death or shoots up every night or goes insomniac. It's his own damn life and he's a grown man and he can make his own decisions if he wants to destroy himself slowly John doesn't care. He has freedom. Freedom to enjoy his life at university away from sociopaths.

"Jooohn," Sarah whines, jumping up and down on his bed like a little child. "Stop your moping and let's go to a party."

"Not interested," John mumbles and pulls the sheets up to his ear. "Have to study."

Sarah plops down, sitting on the edge of the bed and scowling. "This is getting ridiculous."

"Indeed it is." John rolls over so that he's facing her. "And what about you? I'm single again. Why aren't you making a move?"

Sarah laughs and jabs him in the shoulder. "I have morals, you know. A month. If you're not together with that idiot in a month's time, you're mine. Unless…" she smirks. "Unless you'd rather I start hitting on you now?"

"Oh god please no."

"Thought so." She then grabs John's arm. "Now come on. Let's go get drunk."

"Actually, a drink does sound rather appealing right now…"

"All right, that's settled. We'll have a party."

And they do. They have a, as Mike calls it, a Welcome Back John to the Land of the Living party. John had almost forgotten what having fun with friends was like. Since he had dated Sherlock, Sherlock had taken up most of his time. Almost like a giant child.

"And you know what the best part was?" John laughs, drunk out of his mind. "We said we were dating, right? And we didn't even go on a single date!" He couldn't even stop laughing. He must have laughed for ten minutes straight.

Later that night, Mike rubs John's back in support as John vomits out everything he'd been eating for the past five years. In-between regurgitations John sobs and swears and slurs out "how could he do this" and "I still love him" over and over until he feels the need to throw up again.

* * *

It's not like Sherlock is faring any better either.

He's essentially become a prisoner in his own room. Completely by choice, of course. It's not as if Moriarty keeps him chained to his bed or anything. No, Sherlock chooses to stay in his room all day, practically doing nothing but staring at his wall. He isn't even compelled to do his experiments anymore.

Lestrade comes by. Molly made cookies, but more than anything it's an excuse for Lestrade to see how Sherlock is dealing. Sherlock tells him to piss off, as usual, but he sounds more sad than annoyed.

"You've got to eat," Lestrade points out.

"I eat enough to survive," Sherlock defends. And Lestrade just shakes his head and leaves because he knows he's not going to win with this stubborn idiot.

Later that night, as Moriarty pins Sherlock's arms above his head and rather forcefully thrusts against him, Sherlock doesn't make a single sound.

Moriarty drops his head to Sherlock's ear and snarls. "If your strategy is to bore me into leaving you, it's not going to work. I'd fuck your corpse years after your death."

"You're a sadistic bastard," Sherlock hisses in defiance. He is instantly slapped hard across the cheek.

"And you're a sick masochist," Moriarty barks at him, digging his nails into Sherlock's wrists painfully. "Aren't we a pair?"

"You're going to rot in jail," Sherlock snaps.

"And you'll be sitting right there next to me," Moriarty growls with equal ferocity.

Sherlock snorts. "I'll be the one putting you behind bars."

"Oh please do try. It gets me off so much," Moriarty moans, his hands suddenly around Sherlock's throat and his hips grind against Sherlock's own.

Sherlock gasps and immediately pushes his palms against Moriarty's bare chest, but he can't seem to shove him off. He can't breathe, and it seems like every struggle only causes Moriarty to squeeze tighter. Sherlock claws at everything-Moriarty's chest, wrists, face, but with no avail. Every attempt he makes to inhale is futile, and of course the two of them don't have a safe word. It's not like Moriarty would ever actually stop at Sherlock's discomfort.

Moriarty doesn't let go until he finishes his orgasm and Sherlock's so lightheaded he feels like he's going to die. It's the greatest feeling in the world when Moriarty's fingers finally unwrap themselves from Sherlock's neck and he can finally breathe. He chokes out deep inhales and sharp exhales in an attempt to reestablish a regular breathing pattern.

And Moriarty just leaves him there. Just gets up, refastens his pants, and goes home. Wherever home is for the bastard.

For the longest time, Sherlock just lays there staring up at the ceiling and regaining a regular heartbeat. As his eyes gaze at nothing in particular, he starts to regret absolutely everything he's ever done with his life.


	18. Chapter 18

John tries to move on with his life.

It's pretty damn hard when Lestrade keeps showing up at his door.

John rolls his eyes and starts to slam the door shut, but Lestrade halts the movement with his hand. "Please!" He calls out desperately. "Mycroft called me last night. If Sherlock won't start attending classes again he's going to be expelled and there isn't anything Mycroft will be able to do about it!"

"Like I give a shit," John snaps. He's tired. "In fact, I hope he gets expelled. I really do. You want to know why? Because then maybe I'll finally get some damn peace and quiet in my fucking life!" He isn't trying to be cruel. He really isn't. John is not a cruel person. He's just sick, is all. Sick of hearing about Sherlock Holmes.

"He's hurt," Lestrade tries to tell him. "I know it. He's…he's back on the drugs and…" he runs his fingers through his hair in frustration and sharply exhales. "Please. I know he's not your responsibility anymore or whatever, but will you talk to him at least? You don't even need to show your face. Just call him or…or text, he likes texting, just something before this damage becomes irreversible."

John snorts. "Oh I think the damage is pretty irreversible already." He shakes his head at Lestrade, actually apologetic. "No," he answers. He pauses a bit, almost like he's re-contemplating his response, but in the end he sticks by his word. "I can't. I'm sorry, Greg."

He watches Lestrade's face fall as he slowly closes the door.

John leans against the door and sighs. He's angry. He's still so angry no matter what he does to calm down. He tries to tell himself it's not Sherlock's fault, because Sherlock couldn't really control who he fell in love with. He tries to tell himself that Sherlock is sick, diseased even, and that he needs professional help and not punishment for running off with his abuser. But then John remembers all the awful things Sherlock had said to him, about how he was just entertainment. A plaything. That it was all a lie.

Fuck. John had really felt like he had been able to make a difference in Sherlock's messed up life. He really had wanted to help. He keeps recalling that cold day in October when Sherlock had declared John as his only friend. John wonders if that was all an act too.

Sherlock had said he needed John. That John was the only reason he wouldn't try to get himself killed. John had thought that to be a confession of love. Turns out he was wrong. But what about their first time? Their first time making love, Sherlock was scared and unsure. John was the one who taught him trust. Could Sherlock so easily discard that? Was he really that cruel?

John tries to shake the memories out of his head. He needs coffee. He feels like he deserves a nice big hot cup of hot, store bought coffee-and a pastry too, so he grabs his coat and sets out.

Of course he doesn't visit the coffee shop on campus. He doesn't know if Sherlock will be there, but he'd rather not risk it. Instead he goes off campus. There isn't another coffee shop for another mile and a half and John doesn't have a car, but a little air will do him some good. He'd almost forgotten about what laid beyond the gates of the university. He'd almost forgotten that the scenery of the surrounding town was one of the reasons he had applied in the first place. His first year of uni, he and Sarah had gone to all sorts of places. Museums. Shops. They had really taken advantage of exploring the area. After the initial hype of "we must see everything" had died down, John found that he rarely left the comforts of campus. He really must change that.

The coffee off campus is surprisingly less expensive. John is ecstatic to learn that he'll be able to buy another meal with his low college-student budget. He doesn't know why he hadn't gone here before. Think of all the money he could have saved!

John can't even describe how refreshed he feels after his coffee. He feels like he emerges from the shop a new man. Sherlock Holmes? Sherlock, who?

* * *

Sometimes Sherlock just sits there and takes it. He'll sit there like he's dead and won't even flinch when a palm strikes across his face or when fingers grip his upper arms so hard they bruise.

Sometimes Sherlock fights back. He'll suddenly lash out at his attacker, fist connecting with the side of Moriarty's face. They usually end up on the floor after that, wrestling and biting and pulling at each other's hair until Sherlock grows weary and Moriarty grows bored.

Moriarty scrambles up to his feet and readjusts his suit. He tsks. "Oh Sherlock, look at what you've done." He wipes his hand down the front of his suit jacket. "This is Westwood, you know." He then sneers at the younger man beneath him and spits.

Sherlock only wipes the saliva off his face and calls out "you're a despicable human being."

"Don't talk to yourself like that," Moriarty teases as he begins to walk away. "I might have to admit you into a mental hospital."

* * *

Once, John almost does text Sherlock. He actually writes out the text and ghosts over the send button. And then he immediately deletes the entire thing.

He's not angry anymore. Really, he's not. John isn't the type to hold a grudge, after all. Once, in secondary school, John's girlfriend had cheated on him, and even after he swore he would never forgive her for the duration of his life he found that he just couldn't stay angry. Sherlock was no different, of course.

He does feel bad for Sherlock. He knows nobody deserves to be abused. Then again, it's not like there's much John can really do about it. Sherlock is stubborn and he won't leave the relationship no matter what John has to say, and after all John is only a poor university student with no authority.

No. No, speaking of authority, John suddenly has a brilliant idea.

He whips out his phone and again and manages to send a message to Sherlock.

_We need to talk_

_-JW_

* * *

The moment John arrives at Sherlock's dorm, it takes all of Sherlock's self-control to not jump right into John's arms.

The moment John arrives at Sherlock's dorm, it takes all of John's self-control to not lose it and fall to Sherlock's feet sobbing in tears. Sherlock looks awful and John feels awful for ever being angry at him. The once high and mighty deducing genius now lays sprawled across his sofa, his complexion pale and sickly and looking more like a junkie than he did when he and John first met. There's a fresh bruise across one of Sherlock's high cheekbones. John is a pre-med major. He knows it can't be any older than a day or so.

This was a bad idea. John needs to get out of here. He can't stand looking at Sherlock like that. He knows he has a right to feel angry after being dumped so harshly like that but the more Sherlock looks like he's gone through hell, the more John wants to beat himself up for even thinking his own life was tough. He needs to go. For his own sake. No. John shakes his head and takes a defiant step into the room. He needs to be here. This needs to be settled once and for all.

John watches Sherlock part his perfectly shaped lips slowly. "John," he acknowledges. "You've come to stop me."

"No," John corrects. "I can't do a dammed thing. I've come to yell at you." He grabs a chair from the dining table and swings it around so that he can sit in front of Sherlock. "Here's how it's going to do down," he says firmly, almost like a military commander. "I am going to call you a stupid bloody idiot and a whole lot of other not-so-good things. And then I'm going to swear at you. And then you're going to text your brother and he'll be the one to come at stop you. And then I'm going to leave and you'll never see my face again."

Sherlock frowns. "My brother and I have a mutual agreement. He doesn't interfere with my personal like and I don't call him fat."

John blinks for a moment. "But he's not…" He shakes his head quickly to avoid getting off topic. "That's not the point, okay? If you won't tell him, I will."

"Oh, he already knows."

"What?" John is shocked.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "One of the more unfortunate things my brother and I share genetically is our IQ. Of course he knows."

John's eyes widen. "And he isn't doing anything?"

"I told him it was consensual."

John scoffs, a little bit taken aback. "And he believes you? That you just enjoy taking a beating?"

"Naturally not," Sherlock explains. "But as long as I tell the court it's consensual nothing can be done."

"Why?" John asks, his voice straining a bit. "Why are you doing this to yourself? What, you think you deserve it or something stupid like that?"

"Because I love him."

"Bullshit!" John's tone instantly rises.

"It's true!" Sherlock hisses with equal ferocity, sitting up abruptly to stare John in the face.

John clenches his jaw tightly. He tried. He really did try. It's not his fault Sherlock is an uncooperative stubborn bastard. He stands up furiously. "That's it," he snaps. "I'm calling the police."

As John walks towards the door, Sherlock calls out "they won't do a thing."

John actually laughs at that. "Oh no, not about Moriarty of course. But I'm sure they'll have a thing or two to say when they find all the illegal drugs you're harboring. They're here. I can smell them. I'm not as stupid as you think I am." And with that, John slams the door shut.

Sherlock spends the night in jail for drug posession. He's lucky he got off so easily because he and DI Lestrade are mates. That was the agreement. One night in jail in exchange for Sherlock going back to class. "And for god's sake, get this boy something to eat!"

Molly Hooper is shocked and a bit overjoyed when she finally sees Sherlock back in class for the first time.

* * *

"Sarah?"

"Hmm?" Sarah looks up from her textbook. John had come over so that they could study for a pretty important exam on bone structures.

"It's been a month," John points out.

"So?"

"Why haven't you made a move yet?" John asks, honestly curious.

Sarah smiles warmly at him. "Because you're still madly in love with him, you git."


	19. Chapter 19

All John ever really wanted in life was to be successful. He had plans. He came to uni to have fun and become a doctor. That's all he wanted. He wanted to help people, to cure them and make them better, but in a more physical sort of way. He never wanted to be Sherlock's unofficial psychologist. He only wanted to become friends because Sherlock was alone and nobody should be alone-provided they were a good person, which Sherlock was, because no matter how much of an arse he was John know he meant well. It's just that Sherlock had been so closed to social affairs he didn't know how to act, and John wanted to help him, but he never wanted it to come to this. He never wanted it to come to the point where he sat there dreaming about Sherlock's fucking cheekbones while Sherlock could very well be screwing with Jim at that exact moment.

Abusive relationships are in no way healthy. Getting beaten, raped, and driven back to the drugs he had worked so hard to get off of was not the ideal scenario for Sherlock, and John knew it. He knew he had to tell someone. Mycroft. Leave it to an older brother to set the younger one straight. Except Mycroft was government and John had no means of contacting him. What, was he supposed to call up Buckingham palace and ask for Mycroft Holmes because lowly inferior John Watson wanted to inquire about his defective brother?

Sod this, John thinks to himself. It's too early in the morning to regret everything he's ever done in his life.

The coffee shop off campus is not his favorite. It's often crowded and their pastries are not as fresh as they are on campus. Still, walks are good and John really can't bring himself to set foot in the shop on campus, in case he accidentally runs into someone he knows.

He orders a cup of coffee and a biscuit and sits down to enjoy his breakfast.

It starts out wonderfully. John relaxes, sipping his hot beverage nonchalantly while thinking to himself that he just might as well attend that party Sarah has been hounding on about. His heartbeat is slow and steady, and all is right in the world, even if for just that one moment only.

When he's about halfway through with his coffee, he checks his watch and realizes he should probably head back and prepare for class.

A sturdy palm slams upon the table, making John jolt out of his skin.

A deep voice growls out "stay for a while, Johnny boy."

When John looks up, he comes face to face with a sharp man in a grey suit with piercing eyes and a snarky smile played out across his lips. Jim Moriarty.

John tenses up as Moriarty takes the seat across from him and nonchalantly grabs John's half-finished beverage, placing the Styrofoam to his lips and taking a sip like they're best buddies. John only watches with his lips pressed tightly together.

Moriarty pushes the cup back in John's direction and leans back in his chair, the smirk on his face never faltering. "So, you're the one who put my poor boy in jail for the night. I was lonely."

"Serves you right," John says, and immediately regrets saying it afterward.

Moriarty, however, doesn't seem offended. In fact, he laughs. "Oh, don't worry, we made up for lost time just this morning."

John can feel his jaw clench, knowing exactly what Moriarty was implying.

"Boy, he's a screamer," Moriarty says as if it's the most normal thing in the world to be talking about. And then his smirk turns its attention onto John. "But I guess you already knew that, didn't you?"

It takes all of John's strength and good will to stop himself from lashing out and socking the villain in the jaw. He has to sit on his hands to resist temptation.

"I bet you're wondering if he screams your name in bed," Moriarty teases. "Wouldn't that be romantic?" And then he wipes the smile off his face and his expression turns to that of anger as he snaps out "Well he doesn't. He calls my name. When I slap his cheekbones he cries out my name. When I bruise his skin, he cries out my name. When I drive him into the wall he cries out my name. And do you want to know why, John?" Of course the question is rhetorical and he doesn't wait for an answer. "Because he's _mine_."

John stands up abruptly. He's not being confined or tied down by rope, he has no obligation to listen to this bullshit. He grabs his Moriarty-infected cup of coffee and turns to walk away because he is a decent man with morals and decent men with morals do not go around punching people and starting fights in a coffee shop.

"Sherlock Holmes does not love you," Moriarty hisses as he leaves. "We're alike, you see. All we care about is the adventure, and you, John, do not fit in the equation."

Fucking hell.

So John's day is ruined and the only thing that makes it better is dragging Sarah off to a bar later that evening and getting more drunk than he's ever been in his entire life.

* * *

Something warm and soft ghosts over John's lips. He can feel a hot breath upon his face.

He jolts awake, but the closest person around him is Sherlock, in the kitchen, making tea.

John places a finger on his lips and wonders if the mouth over his was just an illusion.

John doesn't even need to ask why the hell he's in Sherlock's dorm room. He remembers it all so clearly. He had gotten drunk and started crying. Sarah had offered to take him home but he insisted on a walk to clear his head. He must have ended up drunkenly walking towards Sherlock's dorm, because he remembers being here for a huge argument.

"_No, _you_ left _me_!" John hissed at the top of his lungs. "This is your fault, not mine!" And before Sherlock could even get a single word in, John swore again. "Fuck!" He fell to his knees in drunken stupor. "I thought you loved me." _

_Sherlock bent over to grab John's shoulders gently, trying to coax him up, only to have John slap his arms away and scream out "No, don't you dare touch me! You don't get that privilege you fucking prick!" _

"_Why did you leave?" John sobbed out. "We were doing so well. I thought…I mean…why, Sherlock? That's so cruel. Tossing me out like that. Utterly heartless. Did you really not love me? After all that time?" _

_With that being said, John passes out on the floor._

He's on the sofa now, sprawled out as Sherlock enters with a nice hot cup of tea. He takes the tea gratefully but silently and realizes that he never really got an answer last night. To anything. Oh, despite his hangover he felt quite light after screaming out everything he had wanted to scream, but it hadn't advanced their relationship.

John holds the cup to his lips but doesn't drink. Instead, he freezes on the spot, staring at really nothing in particular.

Sherlock sits beside him at a reasonable distance away.

And then John speaks. "You still love me."

"Stop." Sherlock's voice is firm. Demanding. Warning. John watches Sherlock's hand clench at his side.

"No," John disobeys. He's done being evasive. He sets down the untouched cup of tea and twists his head to stare the other man directly in the eyes. "No, you stop. Just stop with this bullshit and tell it to me straight. Why did you dump me?"

"I told you," Sherlock tries to explain, but he is cut off.

"No you didn't!" John suddenly snaps. "You lied! You told me you didn't love me anymore, but I can see it in your dilated eyes-you're not the only one who can deduce things, don't you dare try to fib your way out of this, Sherlock!"

Sherlock clenches his hand into a fist and grinds his teeth together, speechless and defeated for once in his life.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock parts his lips, and John's breath hitches. But nothing is said.

John tries again, his tone firmer this time. "Sherlock, tell me or God help me I will walk out that door and you will never see me again." To prove his point, he starts to stand up. His bait is successful, as Sherlock quickly grabs his arm and shouts out desperately.

"Wait!" Sherlock calls, and John freezes in his tracks. There is a long period of silence before Sherlock speaks again. His voice is low and hushed, in a barely audible whisper as if they were being watched from afar. "He said he'd hurt you."

John blinks in confusion. "What?"

"If I didn't leave. He said…" Sherlock drops his head into his hands, unable to even coherently finish his sentence.

John kneels before him, covering Sherlock's hands with his own. "Who? Moriarty? Oh god."

And then John is wrapping his hands around the back of Sherlock's neck and he can feel Sherlock flinch at the contact. It breaks his heart, that Sherlock had digressed in terms of accepting affection, after all the work he had put into showing Sherlock that touching was okay. That it was normal. Human. He pulls Sherlock's head to his chest as security.

At first, Sherlock restrains himself. He knows this is dangerous, getting John involved, because Moriarty is a dangerous man. But he missed John's tender touch far too much and he ends up grabbing onto John's back.

They're hugging. They're hugging and laughing and sobbing but no tears are coming out and

"Sherlock, you bloody idiot," John chokes, squeezing Sherlock harder. "Going around putting yourself in danger without me."

"For your protection," Sherlock reminds him, burying his face into John's chest, feeling his heartbeat against his cheek.

"And who was going to protect you?"

"I don't need protection."

John presses a kiss to Sherlock's temple. "Don't you dare say that ever again." He wants to squeeze Sherlock even tighter but he's afraid that if he does, Sherlock might explode.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispers, clutching to John's back like his life depended on it. Sherlock rarely apologizes, but when he does, he repeats it copious amounts of time in order to get his message across. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

With that being said, John jerks Sherlock away from him and grabs onto Sherlock's shoulders, a stern look across his face and it's all back to business again. "Sherlock. Listen to me. We are going to get you out, okay? And you're going to let me help you. Is that clear?"

Sherlock bites his lower lip, obvious reluctant to oblige. He's not used to this. Help. And he knows the safest thing for John to do is leave, but Sherlock is selfish and now that John is here, he's not leaving. "Okay," Sherlock manages to squeeze out of his throat.

And then they're kissing. John's hands cupping Sherlock's face, desperately linking their lips together because he's starved, deprived of that perfect Cupid 's bow. They kiss passionately, pressing against each other and Sherlock's cool hands slither up John's neck, making the hair beneath his fingertips stand on end. Perhaps they even forget they're supposed to breathe.

John moans into Sherlock's mouth, having waited for this moment for quite a long time. He slips his tongue pasts Sherlock's accepting lips and runs the appendage over Sherlock's teeth, tangles it with Sherlock's own tongue. Hot. Desperate. Like they're never going to see each other again.

When John finally decides he needs to breathe or else he'll drop dead right there on Sherlock's floor, he breaks away from the kiss and sharply inhales. Sherlock mimics the movement and for a moment they just freeze there, hearts beating erratically and breathing on each other's faces. And then John drops his head down to Sherlock's neck to plant a kiss at the collarbone. Sherlock gasps in surprise and throws back his neck to grant John access to all the skin he has to offer, tangling his fingers into John's hair.

There's a hickey on Sherlock's neck, purple and red and bruised and swollen and it shocks John half to death. It also makes him want to cry and hold Sherlock and never let him go. Sherlock is tainted. John knows this. But that doesn't really matter.

John's hands grasp onto Sherlock's thin, defined hips, grasping at the bones of his pelvis to push him down so that Sherlock is lying flat on the sofa. John gets on top of him without ever removing his lips from Sherlock's neck, sucking at the skin and giving Sherlock another hickey, to remind Sherlock of who he really belongs to.

John reaches beneath Sherlock's shirt, sliding his hands up Sherlock's chest and caressing the flesh beneath his palms. In reaction, Sherlock parts his lips and fists John's hair desperately.

It takes the both of them to finally slip Sherlock's T-shirt over his head, tossing the article of clothing somewhere on the floor. Sherlock's body is painted with bruises, some large and some small, some fresher than others, and John bows his head to gently kiss each mark. Kisses them and makes them all better. As if John's lips could magically make the discolored stains disappear.

"John." Just the way Sherlock forces out his name sends arousal shooting straight down into John's groin and he can't help but press his clothed hips against Sherlock's. The both of them share a gasp of delight.

One would expect that after all this time apart, after being so starved of each other's company, that the both of them would turn animalistic, humping against each other and pulling at each other's hair, desperate to find any sort of friction they could possible achieve. Instead, they're slow. Deliberate. Almost cautious throughout the entire time they make love. John can feel Sherlock's body tremble as they move together, almost like their first time together all over again. John grabs Sherlock's thin hips, rubs his thumbs into the fragile flesh of Sherlock's pelvis in the most erotic way possible. They call each other's names, and they don't even care that they're fucking on a sofa and not an actual bed because it's just too good for them to even care. As they copulate, John intertwines their fingers. This is Sherlock's reassurance that John will never allow any harm to come to him ever again. Every thrust into Sherlock is soft, passionate, and sensual, and when they come, they hold each other like the world will end if they ever let go.

And afterwards, they lay there like that, John naked and on top of Sherlock, panting heavily and Sherlock below him, satisfied and completely spent.

Neither of them attend class that day. They spend their morning and afternoon making up for lost time by shagging on nearly every possible surface and wasting the day away with several lazy snogging sessions either on the sofa, in the bed, or flat out on the floor in post-orgasmic bliss.


	20. Chapter 20

Sherlock is a cold man. When he sits, he sits up straight. When he walks, he walks with conviction. When he speaks, his voice is firm and merciless, never stumbling over his words. His tongue is as sharp as his mind and he doesn't care about who he offends. His skin is pale and white, soft and delicate, and to one who knew him his flesh should obviously be as cold as his personality.

John knows for a fact that the opposite is true. Of course he was surprised, the first time he touched Sherlock intimately, to find that the skin beneath his fingertips was quite warm. Soft and soothing, like Sherlock's body was a lullaby CD for deaf people, and John found that he could have easily fallen asleep if he hadn't been so damn horny. It's always been a fantasy of John's to just lay there touching Sherlock's skin, getting to feel every inch of it without a thought in his head, but his mind was always preoccupied during sex, and afterwards he was always too tired to lift his hand, and of course whenever he woke up Sherlock would already be gone and off to some class or experiment or something.

This morning, however, John finds himself quite warm despite the chilly February morning outside the dorm. He finds Sherlock's limp, vulnerably body facing away from John right there next to him, a rare sight indeed. Of course he can't help but reach out and wrap his arms around Sherlock's thin body. Sherlock stirs, but doesn't seem to awaken. John has to wonder when it was that Sherlock last got a full night's sleep.

John pulls the both of them together, his chest pressing tightly against Sherlock's back, and rests his forehead on Sherlock's shoulder blade. The silence around them is nothing but sweet music. Not a sound is being made-John can't even hear Sherlock's breathing. He wouldn't have guessed Sherlock was even alive if it wasn't for the feeling of his chest moving ever so subtly underneath John's hands. John gently puts his lips against Sherlock's shoulder. A soft kiss, just above a harsh purple bruise.

When John presses his mouth against Sherlock's collarbone, the sleepy genius stirs again, making a sort of small grunting sound but never opening his eyes. John kisses Sherlock's exposed neck, sucking gently at the pale flesh that is already riddled with hickeys, most of which belong to John.

At that point, Sherlock shifts, turning his body so that his back is flat against the mattress and John's right arm is trapped underneath the sleeping body.

The blanket is half down Sherlock's torso, so John can see Sherlock's ribcage clearly as it rises and falls with every breath. John covers Sherlock's heart with his hand, tracing lazy patterns over the skin as he sighs in content. He wonders if it's physically possible for them to stay like this forever. Happy and calm and together.

Somewhere along the way John gets bored of Sherlock's lack of response and ends up getting on top of Sherlock and kissing him straight in the lips.

By the time Sherlock is awake enough to function, he realizes that John is grinding their hips together-only pants separating them- and that he's already half hard and it's barely eight in the morning. He's practically involuntarily kissing back, his mouth wide open and pleading for penetration. John has to oblige, of course, and slides his tongue past Sherlock's eager and willing lips.

Sherlock hooks his arms around John's neck, arching his back into the sensation of their stimulated groins rubbing against each other. Both of them are once again lost in their bliss.

John has both hands down Sherlock's pants when Sherlock gets a grip on reality. He stiffens and freezes, grabbing John's wrists and breaking their longwinded kiss. "John," he gasps out. "What time is it?"

"Fucking hell," John groans, dropping his head down to Sherlock's forehead. "What does it matter?"

"I have class."

"So do I," is John's response. "But who cares?"

Sherlock takes John's head in his hands so that they can stare into each other's eyes. "John, I will not hang your failure over my head." And oh boy is he serious.

John bites his lower lip. It's true, as much as he'd love staying here and shagging forever, he was still at uni and he still had a degree to earn, a degree that didn't take too kindly to absences. So, defeated, he gives in and slips his hands out of Sherlock's pants. "Let me walk you to class," he says as a compromise.

"My class is on the other side of campus."

"So?"

"No," is Sherlock's solid firm answer, and John pouts because he knows how stubborn Sherlock is.

"All right," John gives in, getting off Sherlock-but not without a quick peck on the lips first. He grabs his trousers off the floor and Sherlock follows in his footsteps. They get dressed silently. Sherlock makes a face at John to show his dislike in John's choice of sweater, and John glares at him to let it be known that he's a grown man who's allowed to wear whatever the hell he wants, when he wants.

They share one last passionate kiss before John leaves. Sherlock almost doesn't want him to go. When John disconnects their lips Sherlock finds himself leaning forward, almost begging for more. John gives him a warm smile-sympathetic maybe, and shuts the door behind him.

Sherlock has time for a quick shower before he has to get to his organic chemistry class, so he heads over to the bathroom. While there, he catches a good look at himself in the mirror. Sherlock hardly ever looks at himself in a mirror. He doesn't find it necessary. Why should he care about weight or outward appearances? Looking pretty won't land him a job anywhere. But every so often he'll catch a glimpse of himself. It's inevitable after all.

Sherlock's skin resembles porcelain quite nicely. Smooth and pale without much effort. However, the delicate flesh is battered and stained with blue and purple. Red scratches rise from the skin on his angular hip, an aftermath of Moriarty's last visit. Sherlock touches the marks lightly. They don't hurt, but he supposes it shouldn't matter even if it did. Of course he had to wonder how he was going to explain the new hickeys spread across his neck and torso-and the one on his inner thigh dear god-to Moriarty. Moriarty was not a stupid man. He'd find out in an instant. John would be in immediate danger. Sherlock would have to save him.

Moriarty. Oh, that's right. Technically Sherlock was now in two relationships at the same time. It could be regarded as cheating, but he doesn't exactly believe it could be called that if John is fully aware of the situation. Moriarty, not so much.

And speaking of the devil, the door slams open and Sherlock practically jumps out of his skin.

"Oh Sherlock dear, I'm hooome," a playful voice calls out, and Sherlock freezes in his tracks with his eyes fixed on his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

"Sherlock, where are yooou?" the voice calls out in a way that, to a six year old, would sound like they were playing hide and seek, but to Sherlock, left him pretty much terrified. Like Moriarty was a serial murderer looking for his next victim. Actually, it was exactly that.

Sherlock isn't stupid enough to think that if he just stood still and didn't make a sound Moriarty wouldn't find him, but it wouldn't kill him to try.

About five seconds later Moriarty's reflection is apparent through the corner of Sherlock's eye as he stares straight at the mirror. He watches Moriarty's surprised expression turn mischievous, his lips curling into a sneer and his eyes narrowing in an almost sinister manner. "Oh Sherlock, you naughty boy, practically naked this early in the morning." He reaches out to lightly run a hand down Sherlock's bare shoulder, making the pale genius shudder. Moriarty's voice drops two octave as he growls out "have you been waiting for me?"

Sherlock is still frozen as Moriarty slips an arm around Sherlock's torso, ice cold fingers gently brushing against his skin. He watches their reflection, never taking his eyes off the mirror.

"Did you have fun last night?"

Sherlock doesn't answer.

Moriarty's smile fades instantly and he snaps out "I hope you didn't think you'd get away with this." As he speaks, his nails dig into Sherlock's chest and Sherlock has to bite his tongue to keep from hissing in pain.

"I have class," is Sherlock's only retort.

"I'm going to kill him," Moriarty barks, ignoring Sherlock's statement as his hands instantly find their way around Sherlock's throat, gripping tight. He jerks Sherlock forward, bending him over the sink into an extremely submissive position. He then bends over Sherlock so that he can whisper into his ear "I'm going to kill him in the most painful way imaginable, and I'm going to make you watch. And then I'm going to kill you and fuck your carcass until I'm satisfied."

Sherlock resists, quite frankly disgusting by Moriarty's words as he pushes back against his restraints. But alas, Moriarty is stronger physically and Sherlock is unable to break free.

"I'm going to mark you," Moriarty threatens, growling through clenched teeth. "I'm going to cut you and burn you and bruise you until your body is like a piece of art. I'd hang you in a museum if it wouldn't be such an ugly, filthy piece of art. And John is going to come back and find you here, crumpled on the floor because you'll be too sore to move and he's going to be appalled at your repulsive body, and he's going to leave and never return. That's my plan, Sherlock. I'm going to make you ugly so that no one else can have you. You'll have a face not even your precious mother could love. People are going to throw up at the mere sight of you. Do you understand?" He barks that last sentence like he's a military general, and Sherlock flinches beneath him.

Sherlock does not like being humiliated. He is known for his pride around campus. He can come off as snobby, arrogant, and a real douche at times. His interactions with Jim Moriarty will never be talked about outside this dorm room because he will never let anyone know he let himself succumb to such a horrid man.

Moriarty takes him right there on the bathroom sink.

Sherlock shows up to class late and looking quite disheveled. If it was anyone else, people might have suspected that he had just come from a rough shag, but because it was Sherlock, his classmates only brushed it off as him falling asleep during an experiment and waking up late. Sherlock only hopes their mentalities stay that way.


	21. Chapter 21

John can barely stand, back pressed firmly against the wall of the bedroom and his head thrown back. His breathing is heavy and uneven, his legs feeling more like cooked spaghetti than actual legs. His hands are curled into fists, fingers latching firmly around patches of dark, curly hair.

Between his legs, Sherlock kneels, his palms on John's hips, pinning him to the wall and restricting his movements.

John calls out Sherlock's name, practically melting at every touch. He had missed this, quite honestly. He hadn't forgotten how fantastic Sherlock was at blowjobs, of course, but all the same he hadn't been able to quite remember how they had felt, Sherlock taking John's prick so deep in his mouth it hits the back of his throat. Sherlock was indeed a master at deep throat, something he had apparently picked up after learning to swallow swords in grade school. An extraordinary skill John could certainly live with.

The sounds Sherlock makes beneath him are practically pornographic. Sherlock is certainly enjoying himself, that much is for sure. Sherlock can be regarded as one of the most selfish people in the world, but when it comes to intimacy it seems like he lives only to please his partner, perhaps something he had picked up from being forcefully submissive to Moriarty.

"Sherlock," John gasps out again, his legs buckling beneath him. "Sherlock, I can't," John groans with a sense of urgency. His fingers become even deeper entangled into Sherlock's curls as he desperately seeks his release.

Sherlock doesn't pull himself away until the last possible moment. When he can feel John start to pulsate within his mouth, he pulls his head back and John lets him. He then wraps his hand around John's base and coaxes him through his imminent orgasm.

It takes John a while to recover, eyes shut tight in pure post-orgasmic bliss, fingers lazily stroking through Sherlock's dark hair. He has to catch his breath as Sherlock cleans up, his heartbeat rapid and uneven. Sherlock tucks John back into his pants and helps to zip up his trousers. John is finally able to open his eyes again, looking down at the man kneeling before him. He smiles warmly as he wipes away a bit of semen that had landed straight on one of Sherlock's sharp cheekbones.

When all is clean and well, John pulls Sherlock to his feet and locks him in an embrace, their bodies pressed against each other and their lips solidly connected. Sherlock grasps John's face and John's arms wrap around Sherlock's back, hands steadily creeping lower and lower until they're slipping underneath the waistband of Sherlock's jeans. Palms gently knead at the soft flesh of Sherlock's arse.

"I love you," John gasps out for the first time since their reunion. Sherlock's response is to laugh, head falling so that his forehead rests against John's shoulder. His hands slide down to grasp at John's upper arms tightly, yet not restricting.

"I hope you're not expecting me to answer," Sherlock says, his voice deep and heavy.

It's John's turn to laugh as he responds "I'm really not. There's no use for you stating the obvious, is there?"

And they kiss again, tongues dancing around each other, teeth clashing, hips grinding, and hands groping at any flesh either of them can get a hold of in a fevered frenzy.

They're so caught up in their intimate actions it's nearly impossible to detect the steadily approaching third presence. Fortunately, Sherlock Holmes is far from an idiot, and he freezes his lips against John's. That's when John realizes it, and all movements cease.

There isn't a single sound in the room besides that of heavy discombobulated breathing. John can't bear to open his eyes while Sherlock is much too frightened to shut his. He stands perfectly still as the third presence starts a teasing slow clap, its malicious intentions quite clear.

"Bravo," a sinister voice calls out as the clapping picks up speed. "Excellent show tonight, boys."

Sherlock slowly turns his head to face the intruder, keeping his body in front of John's smaller frame, like a shield of sorts. John slides his hands up to grip Sherlock's thin waist as reassurance.

"Jim." Sherlock's voice is sharp and hostile.

Moriarty claps again. "Congratulations on stating the obvious. I see spending time with your less intelligent little friend over there dulls your deductive skills considerably. Now what am I going to do with you?"

"John," Sherlock whispers. "John, you have to leave."

"What?" John responds, tightening his hold on Sherlock's waist. "I'm not leaving!"

"I will not be held accountable for anything that happens beyond this point," Sherlock warns through gritted teeth. "So go, please. For my sake, if nothing else."

And John is just about to reply when another deep voice interrupts the both of them.

"Oh this is all very touching," Moriarty comments. "Really adorable, the both of you. It's too bad Sherlock isn't your toy. Now, let's cut to the chase, shall we?" He walks forward in a highly dignified manner considering his job as a consulting criminal and serial murderer. John can feel Sherlock tense in front of him like he's getting protective, as if it's John who's been the victim of Moriarty's abuse all this time.

Moriarty snarls as he suddenly lashes out and hastily grabs a handful of Sherlock's hair, yanking the young genius backwards as he cries out in pain. John lets out a surprised yelp and reaches for Moriarty, only to be shoved forcefully to the ground.

Sherlock stumbles backwards into Moriarty's awaiting arms and John watches in horror as Moriarty bites down onto the tender flesh of Sherlock's neck. He scrambles to his feet and lounges forward with his arms held in front of him, pressing his palm flat against Moriarty's forehead and pushing him off of Sherlock. Unfortunately, he only succeeds in angering the criminal as Moriarty throws Sherlock against John, knocking the both of them to the floor as the back of John's head collides with the hardwood and Sherlock's forehead bumps against John's rather painfully. Both of them let out a shared groan.

It's evident that Moriarty isn't quite done with his turmoil yet as he grabs Sherlock by the coat collar and flings him across the room, his head hitting the wall rather harshly. "Sherlock!" John cries out in desperation. His heart is beating faster than it ever has before, fear rushing through his veins. He's never been in a situation quite like this before. He and Harriet used to get into nasty fights, but never any of this magnitude, and certainly not with a wanted criminal.

Moriarty stomps towards Sherlock and kneels before him as he shouts out "You're disgusting! You lying, cheating bastard!" He slaps Sherlock clear across the face and when Sherlock tries to hit back, Moriarty grabs his wrists and hold then above his head, restricting movement. "Did you think you could just get away with this?" He hisses, spitting right into Sherlock's eye. "You filthy animal?"

John is conflicted. He knows Sherlock is in danger, especially when Moriarty wraps his hands around Sherlock's throat, and he knows the brave thing to do would be to try to pry Moriarty away, but he also knows that is the stupid thing to do. Moriarty is obviously stronger than both John and Sherlock, and John knows that any attempts he might make to save the man he loves would have a disastrous end no matter how sincere they might be. On the other hand, John knows he has to do something. He's not just going to let Sherlock lay there suffering under the hands of England's most dangerous criminal.

He hears Sherlock struggle for every breath as Moriarty spits out insult after insult. John's eyes dart around the room frantically for anything that might help. If he had a weapon, he would have an advantage over Moriarty.

Moriarty straddles Sherlock to make the asphyxiation easier to administer. Sherlock's face slowly grows even paler than usual, his hands desperately clawing at Moriarty's wrists, trying to find some relief. His entire body thrashes in a struggle. Moriarty groans and rolls his hips against Sherlock's, like he's getting off on every frantic struggle.

"Yes," he groans, bowing his head down to press his lips against Sherlock's breathless ones. "That's it, struggle for me. God I love it."

And that's when John sees it. Right there next to him stands the nightstand, and upon the nightstand, shining for the world to see, is Sherlock's phone. If he can't do anything, he can at least call for help.

So he makes sure Moriarty is too occupied to notice as he scrambles to his feet to grab Sherlock's phone off the bedside table. His fingers shake as he hurriedly scrolls through Sherlock's contact list. "Come on come on," he whispers to himself, the sounds of Sherlock's pain ringing louder and louder in his ears.

He finally finds the person he's looking for and quickly calls.

Mycroft is quick to respond.

"Hello brother, what a pleasant surprise. How much money do you need this time?"

"Mycroft, it's John," John whispers into the phone.

There's a moment of hesitation on the other line before Mycroft speaks again. "Ah yes, John Watson. What's the matter? Is my brother dying?"

"Actually, yes," John responds, keeping his voice as quiet as he can possibly muster. "Help. It's Moriarty. Send the police, we're in danger."

Unfortunately, his voice seems to not be soft enough, as Moriarty freezes with his hands around Sherlock's throat, halting all movement for a split second before rushing over on his hands and knees to grab John by the ankles. John screams into the phone as his foot is yanked out from underneath him and his balance falters. He can't help falling; his temple smashes against the edge of the nightstand rather painfully, instantly knocking him out cold. Moriarty gives his unconscious body a steady kick in the ribs for good measure.

Sherlock on the opposite side of the room grasps at his own throat as he attempts to regain a regular breathing pattern, coughing and gasping wildly like he had almost drowned. He locks eyes with Moriarty, who sneers down at him in spite. It's obvious Moriarty is disappointed that all the fun and games had to end so soon. With the police on their way he only had a short time to scamper away, so there's little time for him to kneel back over Sherlock and plant a sloppy kiss on Sherlock's ice cold and deoxygenated lips before running out the door without a trace.

By the time Mycroft shows up with a police force, Moriarty is long gone. The struggle that went on in the room is obvious by the skid marks on the floor, John's blood staining the hardwood just below where he had gotten sacked by the corner of the table, and the two bodies laying on the floor. John was still knocked out and Sherlock was on the verge of becoming unconscious himself.

John's limp body is carefully dragged out of the room by two officers.

Mycroft dirties his crisp black suit to kneel before his younger brother as Sherlock pines for air, slowly finding his regular breathing. He looks completely disheveled and abused, a red mark forming from where Moriarty had slapped him with all his strength. Mycroft frowns at the observation and places a gentle hand on Sherlock's rapidly rising and falling chest to try to calm his brother with little prevail.

Mycroft rarely comes to Sherlock's aide in person. But just the mention of Moriarty's name will send him running to Sherlock's side in a heartbeat. He is absolutely furious. He had long ago promised not to meddle with Sherlock's personal affairs, even when it came to Moriarty, but after seeing his little brother like this, panicked and not at all like his usual calm and collected self, he swears to himself that by the time this was over-and it will be soon, that's a promise-Moriarty will either be rotting in jail or under the ground of his grave.


	22. Chapter 22

**Guys, if this fic triggers you, _please_ don't read it, for your safety. I've already placed trigger warnings at the beginning of the fic but I guess people don't read descriptions nowadays so I'll go back and put warnings on all the chapters**

* * *

"Mycroft, no."

Sherlock's utter frustration is quite obvious in the way his eyebrows are deeply furrowed and his lips are pressed together tightly, corners slightly turned downwards into a frown. He has an arm carelessly slung around John's shoulder, hanging loose but his fingers are curled into a firm fist.

His older brother sits across from him, legs crossed and signature black umbrella leaned against the side of the wooden chair he sits on. Sherlock had long ago quit making fun of Mycroft's tendency to carry an umbrella wherever he went, after the insults became dull and much too boring for Sherlock's stimulating mind. 'It's for just in case,' Mycroft always says. 'You never know when it's going to start raining.'

'_Not afraid of a little rain, are you dear brother?' Sherlock had joked._

'_Not as afraid as you are of bees, Sherlock,' Mycroft had retorted with one eyebrow raised, and Sherlock had instantly shut up. _

Mycroft sighs and subtly rolls his eyes at the couple before him. "Sherlock, it was not an offer."

Sherlock turns up his chin proudly. "I don't need your protection."

"Oh, I think you do."

"Fine, let me rephrase that," Sherlock says. "I don't _want_ your protection."

Mycroft's response is to set both feet on the floor and lean forward, his face as firm and serious as his voice. "I was not asking you if you wanted me to set up a patrol around your dorm. I am telling you that there will be officers stationed at each corner of the building at all times-hidden, naturally. You won't see them."

"But they'll still be there."

"Of course," Mycroft scoffs. "That's the point."

At this point, John steps in. He clears his throat and shifts against Sherlock's side to straighten his back up. He always feels compelled to act dignified around Mycroft, although he can't quite figure out why. He's always been a bit of a sloucher. His father never quite condoned his sitting position.

"I think it's a safe idea," John points out, as if anybody cares at all for his opinion.

Sherlock rolls his eyes at this. "John, please shut up."

"No," John snaps back, perhaps a bit offended. He looks up at Sherlock and their gazes meet. "I'm not having you hurt like that again, your pride be dammed!"

Both Sherlock and Mycroft raise their eyebrows in surprise. Sherlock's jaw drops and Mycroft's lips curl into a large grin. "My my," he chuckles. "Well Sherlock, it seems like your _boyfriend_ is more sensible than you."

Sherlock lets out a short rude laugh. "I'm not the one who nearly got a concussion off a nightstand."

As an involuntary response, John raises a hand up to press against the square bandage on his temple. The area was still sensitive, but if he only touched it lightly it wouldn't hurt as much. And then John retorts. "I'm not the one who was nearly asphyxiated to death."

"He's got you there," Mycroft shrugs.

"No!" Sherlock growls, standing up abruptly, hands balled into tight fists at his sides. "I refuse! And if I come home to find any of your little hidden watchdogs surrounding the building, I will not hesitate to slit their throat in an instant, do you understand me Mycroft?" And he stomps away from the scene, angrily grabbing his coat and slipping it on as he takes brisk stride out the door.

There is a rather awkward moment of silence. John looks down at his feet and Mycroft stares at John.

Mycroft speaks first. "Do excuse my idiot brother."

John's response is to ignore Mycroft's statement and instead ask "you're still setting up the officers, right?"

"As we speak."

John nods, letting out a sigh of relief. "Thank you."

Mycroft smiles again, this time a bit less manipulative than John has ever seen on the man. "He's lucky to have you."

John scoffs. "I'll say."

* * *

Sherlock is not stupid. Of course he is aware of the gunmen hiding in the bushes every time he returned to his dorm. He could call them out if he wanted to, quite easily, but that would more than likely cause a scene and at ten at night, causing a scene in the middle of a university campus was not the most intellectual thing to do. And so Sherlock let it slide.

Upon entering his dorm, he finds John already there, curled up on the sofa with his eyes peacefully closed. Asleep. Adorable.

Sherlock walks up to the sleeping form beneath him and leans over to plant a gentle kiss to John's temple, just above the white bandage that was evidence of John's meddling into Sherlock's affairs. Sherlock had told John that he would not be held accountable for any injuries John sustained because he had the choice to leave the relationship, but all the same Sherlock can't help but still feel responsible.

John stirs awake. He stretches out completely on the sofa and makes a satisfied sound as he opens his eyes to meet Sherlock's. "Hi," he says nonchalantly, his lips curling into a gentle smile.

"Hello," Sherlock replies, giving a little smile back.

And then John is grabbing Sherlock's face and colliding their lips together. Sherlock falls to his knees before the sofa as they kiss passionately.

Lips still locked, John's hands slide down Sherlock's bruised neck and gently caresses the thin flesh of Sherlock's defined collarbone before moving down to the buttons on Sherlock's shirt. He starts unbuttoning them one at a time.

After about the third button, Sherlock's hands are suddenly around John's wrists, halting them in their movements. "John," he whispers against John's lips. "I can't."

"Why?" John asks, his voice equally as soft.

"They're outside," Sherlock whines.

John rolls his eyes and slips his wrists from Sherlock's grasp. "For God's sake, they're not watching _us_, they're watching the building." He continues unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt.

Sherlock is still hesitant.

"Oh for the love of Christ," John mumbles to himself, taking the liberty to strip Sherlock of his shirt while pressing his lips against Sherlock's again. A series of small, chaste kisses this time, innocent and yet not, tiny, but still incredible intimate.

Sherlock finally responds, shifting so that he is able to climb on top of the sofa, straddling John with his legs on either side of John's hips.

John slips his hands back up Sherlock's torso, taking his sweet time to absorb the feeling of his fingers gliding against the soft pale flesh, glazing right across Sherlock's nipples that blatantly showcased Sherlock's arousal.

The love they make that night is soft and silent, Sherlock being much too self-conscious to make a sound. John finds Sherlock's shyness the cutest thing ever.

Sherlock can sense the presence of the gunmen for days.

Moriarty fails to show.

Almost a week goes by with no sign of the criminal mastermind, and eventually Sherlock notices that the patrolmen are no longer lurking in the bushes. Has Mycroft given up? Sherlock supposes so.

The days pass without event. Sherlock occupies himself by day with class and by night with John. He finds the scene strangely domestic. Almost…boring, but in the best way possible. Sometimes a little mundane is good.

On Friday night, John insists on going to a party. They need to let loose once in a while, right? And Sherlock is always so uptight. Like he's got a giant branch up his arse, according to John. Or, according to Lestrade, the whole fucking tree. Of course Sherlock complains. He hates parties, especially parties hosted by Anderson. Those are the worst. Excruciatingly dull, and the only people who show up are those with IQs in the single digits. Not exactly a pleasant way to spend one's evening.

"Come on, we'll get drunk off our arses and then it won't matter how stupid everyone else is," John reasons.

"Of course it will," Sherlock refutes. "It always matters."

But he ends up giving in anyways.

So they ready themselves. The end of February still brings chilly air, and so Sherlock wraps a pale green scarf around his neck. John loves it when Sherlock wears scarves. He doesn't quite know why, though.

But when Sherlock opens the door, he jumps back and his heart nearly stops altogether.

John screams.

There, right in front of their faces, stands a pair of sinister eyes above a suspiciously malicious grin. Beneath that stands a man in a signature grey suit, slick black tie tied neatly and snugly around a well defined neck.

"Hello boys."

John's immediate response is to flip his phone out, but Sherlock quickly grabs John's wrist and halts him. He glances at John, hoping to convey his message through eyesight alone. If John even tried to sent for help, Moriarty would be out of there in a flash and only come back later with extra fury harnessed within him.

Sherlock backs up, away from the entrance and pulling John along with him as Moriarty slowly enters the room, his back straight and his hands relaxed at his sides.

John is stunned, scared pretty much half to death after seeing exactly what Moriarty was capable of-is capable of. He lets Sherlock step in front of him even though he knows how cowardly it is. He knows he should be the one protecting Sherlock and not the other way around, but he just can't help it.

"I believe we were interrupted last time we met," Moriarty says, his voice calm and collected, as if they weren't talking about the day he had knocked John unconscious and nearly suffocated Sherlock to death. "I would have come sooner," Moriarty explains. "But I'm afraid too many people had been invited this week." It's obvious he's referring to Mycroft's watchdogs. So he had noticed them too. Sherlock knew it wouldn't have worked. Moriarty is too clever a genius to fall for something that stupid. "Now then," Moriarty announces, clapping his hands together and rubbing the palms of his hands against one another like he's excited. "Shall we continue where we left off?"

As soon as Moriarty lounges for Sherlock, John is at the rescue, stepping out from behind Sherlock to grab at Moriarty's sleeves. He fails miserably, only succeeding in having Moriarty pushing John away, leaving the shorter man to stumble backwards helplessly.

When Sherlock goes to help John, Moriarty stops him by shoving him against the wall forcefully, the back of Sherlock's head hitting the solid plaster behind him rather hard.

"I don't know who you think you are," Moriarty hisses through gritted teeth as he grabs Sherlock's jaw and traps Sherlock's chin between his fingers. His other hand rests on Sherlock's shoulder, nails digging painfully through the fabric of Sherlock's shirt and into the tender flesh. "You thought you could outsmart me? Cry home to your idiot brother? Did you think he was intelligent enough to stop me? Do you really underestimate me that much?"

Sherlock's lack of response results in Moriarty spitting straight into his eye. It stings like acid. Moriarty squeezes Sherlock's jaw so hard his fingers start to shake from all the tension.

John, on his hands and knees, reaches over and grabs Moriarty by the ankle, yanking his foot out from under him using the same technique Moriarty had used on him last time they had met. Moriarty gives a small cry as he plummets to the ground, freeing Sherlock and allow the curly haired genius to kneel before his abuser and sack him straight in the mouth with his fist.

Moriarty responds with his own fist to Sherlock's jaw, knocking the other man backward as he scrambled to get back on his feet. When John behind him reaches for his legs again, he raises his foot and stomps into John's fingers, leaving John to cry out in pain.

Once up, Moriarty takes the liberty to give Sherlock a good solid kick in the ribs.

And then he's plunging towards the floor again as John firmly grasps Moriarty's legs, refusing to let go even after Moriarty hits the hardwood.

Sherlock, aching and sore, reaches over to grab Moriarty by the tie, pulling the criminal closer so that he is within distance to slap Moriarty across the face. Boy has he always wanted to do that.

At that moment, the door bursts open again, startling everyone-including Moriarty.

A group of police officers stampede towards the trio, ignoring all the shocked looks on everyone's faces. John looks back at Sherlock and the two of them exchange confused glances. Moriarty looks almost fearful as he sees the officers approaching. Obviously caught off guard, his first reaction is to try to scramble back up to his feet to run away. Sherlock pushes him down by the shoulders and John still has him by the legs, and Moriarty growls and thrashes against them like a dangerous shark until the officers come to grab Moriarty themselves.

Of course Moriarty screams and struggles and curses as he is dragged away from the scene.

"I'm going to get you, Sherlock Holmes!" he barks, swearing his vengeance. "I am going to find you, and I am going to make you wish you had never been born!"

And with that, the dorm is finally rid of Jim Moriarty as he is dragged out the door for all eternity.

At first, the room is in a state of shock. John and Sherlock exchange confused glances again, and then their expressions turn to those of disbelief.

Then, in the aftermath of chaos, they laugh.

* * *

"I suppose I'm going to have to thank you," Sherlock sneers at his brother.

Mycroft's expression is completely unreadable as he answers "you're not going to thank me one way or another, so why waste your breath?"

"True."

"How…?" Is the question John keeps repeating as an officer bandages up the hand that Moriarty had so thoughtfully stepped on.

Finally, Mycroft breaks into that sinister, manipulative grin. "It was actually rather simple, looking back at it. The goal was to trick Moriarty. Make him think it was safe to enter. You didn't actually think he'd fall for that officer-in-the-bush shit, did you?"

"Of course not," Sherlock scoffs, offended that his brother would even think that of him.

"Of course not," Mycroft repeats. "Because it's too damn noticeable. Of course Moriarty would have noticed the gunmen."

John blinks for a moment. "I could never notice the gunmen. I didn't realize they had left."

He feels slightly uncomfortable with both Sherlock and Mycroft giving him identical expressions that silently calling him stupid. He's going to have to give Sherlock a slap on the cheek later in the evening.

"Anyways," Mycroft clears his throat, continuing on with his tale. "The gunmen were merely a distraction. Utterly useless. What was useful, however, was the microscopic video camera," he pulls a small camera barely the size of a thumbnail and dyed a deep green before continuing with his sentence. "Hidden in the leaves of a bush, focused directly on the entrance to the building. I had a surveillance watcher on duty at all times, monitoring who came in and out of the building."

"That's illegal!" John cries out.

"And it saved your life," Mycroft points out rather coldly.

Sherlock cuts in rudely, finishing Mycroft's brilliant plan all by himself. "After a few days you ordered the officers to leave, giving Moriarty the impression that you had given up and the building was now safe for him to enter. He hadn't noticed the camouflaged camera because he was too overconfident in himself-a rather risky move on your part, brother. But once he had infiltrated the building you sent your men straight away, and thus capturing the perpetrator once and for all. A rather dull plan when you really think about it."

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. "Any plan that works is far from dull."

"I'd be to differ," Sherlock retorts.

An argument raises steadily and lasts for nearly fifteen minutes straight.

Eventually John is able to calm the brothers down long enough to tell Mycroft "thank you."

Mycroft has a smug grin on his face as he nods and responds "you're welcome, John Watson."

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

And then Mycroft's face is back to being serious. "He's gone."

Sherlock nods.

"Forever. It's all over. He won't touch you ever again, I will personally see to that. "

Another nod.

"Are you okay?"

A pause.

Another nod.

"Never felt better, Mycroft."


	23. Chapter 23

When John enters with two plastic bags-one in each hand, he is greeted with a nearly deafening silence. He knows Sherlock is home partly because the lights are on, but mostly because of the very distinct smell of freshly burning cigarette smoke.

John never liked the smell of cigarettes. It made him uneasy whenever Harriet smoked in his presence, and he often found the scent rather unappealing. When he had first learned of Sherlock's habits, he had been surprised that he could hardly smell any sort of tobacco or marijuana on Sherlock's person. Sherlock had a very clean smell, like the sort of smell one would smell like after a freshly taken shower. Perhaps Sherlock constantly doused himself in body spray to keep the scent off him-smelling like illegal drugs isn't exactly the best way to be inconspicuous-but either way, it was pleasant.

Sherlock lays on the sofa, eyes peacefully closed and a burning cigarette between his perfectly shaped lips. The sun shines through the window above, its rays beating down on Sherlock's skin and illuminating his pale, sharp features. He looked like an angel. A God with impossibly long legs and piercing cheekbones. Lips that, when wrapped around something-say John's cock-formed a perfect heart shape, like blowing John was his way of declaring his love.

Of course Sherlock can sense John's presence. He just chooses to ignore it. Much too lazy. Or perhaps he's in the middle of a very long thought process that he could hardly be bothered to interrupt. John knows he hasn't surprised Sherlock. Nobody ever could. But he still keeps silent as he walks towards him, as if he intends to sneak up on the resting genius.

John stands over his love and is greeted by another whiff of cigarette smoke. It's almost heartbreaking, how much effort he had put into weaning Sherlock off his bad habits only to have all his progress destroyed again, but he supposes that's the problem with addicts. The addiction never truly goes away-just disappears to the back of the mind is all, easily sprung back by the smallest of triggers if someone isn't there to stop them. John can't help but think about all the times he could have helped Sherlock and didn't, instead taking his own time to mope around and think about how much he hated Sherlock, because he had truly thought he had been dumped.

But that's all a thing of the past now. John plans to repress every memory of Moriarty and encourage Sherlock to do the same-if Sherlock is even capable of repressing memories. Either way, John is ridding Sherlock of his bad habits once and for all.

"I brought food," John comments, breaking the silence.

"Not hungry," is Sherlock's immediate reply.

John coughs as he feels the smoke enter his lungs. But he pledges on. "When was the last time you ate?"

"Who's keeping track?"

"I am. As of now. Come on."

Sherlock doesn't budge an inch. John makes no effort to force him. Instead, he reaches into one of his bags and pulls out a rectangular box, dangling it in front of Sherlock's closed eyes.

Sherlock's eyelids snap open immediately to be greeted by the box in his face. It doesn't take a genius to read the package as a set of fifty nicotine patches. When he doesn't take them immediately, John shakes the box a little bit-his actions implying his persistence. So Sherlock, burning cigarette still between his lips, takes the box between his long bony fingers.

"Surprise," John says. "Think of it as an early birthday present."

"I never told you when my birthday was," Sherlock notes, scanning the contents of the box. It's a rather nice box, actually, the sort of quality nicotine patches that university students shouldn't be able to afford. John's intentions are quite clear, and Sherlock can't help but be a little grateful. He understands by now that relationships include sacrifices, and he can certainly sacrifice a little smoke if it means keeping John by his side.

"No, you didn't, because you never talk about yourself," John agrees. "Your brother, on the other hand, won't shut up about you."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I'm going to kill him."

"No you're not."

John reaches his right hand up, index finger and thumb grasping onto the middle of Sherlock's active cigarette, gently prying it from his mouth. Sherlock doesn't resist, instead letting the cylinder slip from between his lips. He watches John reach over and extinguish the smoke in the simple ash tray sitting on the coffee table.

The smell of smoke still lingers through the air, but John can't seem to be bothered as he leans forward, dropping his head down to meet Sherlock's face. His lips hover over Sherlock's momentarily before they kiss, soft and tender. A sweet, innocent kiss, and John can taste the cigarette, but he isn't as disgusted as previously thought. Sherlock raises his chin to press into the kiss, to give John easier access. Both of them are silent, the only sound coming from lip-to-lip contact.

John places a hand on Sherlock's cheek and strokes Sherlock's delicate, flawless skin. By now they had mastered the art of kissing upside down without body parts running into one another. Their lips move smoothly against each other, calmly, soothingly. A pleasant contrast to Sherlock's usually noisy hustling and bustling mind.

Soon, their kiss becomes more heat. John slips his tongue into Sherlock's mouth and Sherlock returns the favor. A small hum makes its way past John's lips and Sherlock lets his new box of nicotine patches fall to the floor in favor of reaching up to grab John's face, crushing their lips together almost furiously.

John reaches over Sherlock to hurriedly unbutton Sherlock's shirt although the position is rather awkward. Eventually they have to break the kiss long enough for John to walk around and get on top of Sherlock, to which they promptly begin kissing again. Sherlock grips John's forearms, guiding him to the zipper of his jeans, to which John has no trouble pulling down. John grips Sherlock's hips tightly, his thumbs rubbing thoughtfully into the sharp bones of Sherlock's pelvis, running over beautiful porcelain skin.

John breaks the kiss first, only to immediately latch onto Sherlock's collarbone, licking the protruding skeleton and consequently making Sherlock grasp at the back of John's head, fingers getting hopelessly tangled into straight blonde locks.

When John slides down Sherlock's body until he is no longer on the sofa but kneeling before his lover, planting small, playful kisses on Sherlock's nearly concave abdomen, Sherlock has to throw his head back to keep in control of himself.

Moriarty's initials remain carved deep into Sherlock's flesh, and John knows it's going to be hard repressing memories with that ugly scar reminding him of that ugly man. He kisses the letters softly, and once more with a bit more force. He presses his forehead into Sherlock's body and groans apologetically. "I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice muffled by his face pressing into Sherlock's skin.

Sherlock strokes John's hair affectionately in retaliation.

"I'm sorry," John repeats, nuzzling his face against Sherlock's hipbone.

In response, Sherlock grabs a fistful of John's hair and yanks, pulling the medical student's head up so that they can lock eyes. "Shut up," Sherlock says coarsely, his face completely serious. "Just shut up and fuck me."

John does.

* * *

Sherlock seems to be recovering quite nicely. The name Moriarty never even crosses his mind, much less leave his lips, and he's taken John's nicotine patches rather fondly. John had been startled when he walked in on Sherlock with three patches stuck to his arm, but he figured Sherlock wasn't normal when it came to anything, why should he be normal when it came to nicotine patches?

John, on the other hand, seems to be having some issues.

He walks into class one day to have all eyes turned on him. He tries to ignore it for a while-gets into his usual seat in the center of the room and stares forward, not adverting his eyes one bit.

Sally Donovan decides to sit next to him today, sliding into the desk next to him and immediately leaning over to whisper into John's ear, "so I hear you're dating the freak."

John's entire world freezes at this point.

It was supposed to be a secret. John's relationship with the most intelligent being on campus wasn't supposed to leave closed doors. John had confided with his friends because they were his friends and they deserved to know. That was okay-his friends were open minded people. Others, however, were not. John had no trouble with his sexuality now, but he knew that others would. The world is a very close minded place in the end, and John knew that his relationship with a man could very well make his school life and potential career very difficult. And it wasn't that he wasn't prepared to face this difficulty-after all part of being in a relationship is learning to overcome such difficulties-he'd just hoped it wouldn't have happened so soon.

Still, how word of he and Sherlock dating got out is truly an enigma. He figured Sherlock would probably spill the beans if it became convenient for him to gather information from someone, but he also figured Sherlock would at least have the decency to ask John for permission first. He hoped to god that it wasn't any of his friends-he trusted them with his life. Perhaps Lestrade was to blame. A sort of way to get back at Sherlock for insulting him or trampling all over him or stealing his father away from him, but Lestrade respected John too much.

Perhaps this was a mystery that would take the genius of Sherlock Holmes to solve.


	24. Chapter 24

John goes straight to Sherlock's dorm after his final class. His mind is still busy, trying to figure out whodunit.

He doesn't even bother to knock anymore. He just opens the unlocked door and waltzes right in regardless of whether Sherlock is actually there or not. It's not like Sherlock minds, really. His dorm has become more of John's than John's himself. Even Mike had commented, asking if John would rather pack up his things and move straight into Sherlock's room. "I'm not kicking you out, mind you," Mike had said. To which John had responded "now that you think about it, that's not a bad idea." Because he had thought about moving in with Sherlock. He spends more time in Sherlock's bed than his own, after all. Still, perhaps he's not yet ready to take that next step. Sherlock can get quite annoying when he gets into his moods, and having contrasting personalities means fights are inevitable. John likes the idea of having a nice clean dorm to escape to in case of a fight or any other event in which John would want to be away from Sherlock. After all, being in a relationship hardly means being stuck at the hip twenty four-seven.

Sherlock is home, however, sitting at the kitchen table with his eyes peering down a microscope. With one hand he holds a pipette to his side, dropping acid into a Petri dish with such precision one might have thought he had actually been able to see what he was doing.

John clears his throat to make his presence known.

"I made tea," Sherlock comments almost immediately, although he does not lift his eyes from his device.

Without another word, John slides into the kitchen and fixes himself a cup. It's amazing how well they work together, despite being very nearly polar opposites. It's times like this where John truly believes that maybe, just maybe, they really would be able to live together. They are mature adults, after all. Then again, living together is one step closer to marriage, and just the thought of getting married sort of makes John want to vomit.

With his-albeit cold because Sherlock must have made it in the morning-tea in hand, John walks over to Sherlock and peers over the genius's shoulder. "Whatcha working on?" He asks, not particularly interested but a bit curious nonetheless.

"Sodium hydroxide," Sherlock answers. "In its solid state. Don't touch it-lest you enjoy getting burned. Be careful where you're standing, I might have spilled some on the floor."

"Oh," John answers, disheartened, raising his cup to his lips. "Lovely." At that point, however, a peculiar mark on Sherlock's temple catches his attention. He hastily sets his tea on the kitchen table-not a bright idea when surrounded by chemicals-and leans forward to closely examine the mark. It's a bruise, obviously, not particularly large but rather discolored and seemingly painful. "Sherlock?" John asks. "Look at me."

"I'm busy," Sherlock responds.

Well, John's having none of that. He grips Sherlock's shoulder with one hand and pulls the man backwards, prying his eyes away from the microscope. When Sherlock's face comes to view, he gasps rather audibly.

It really isn't too terrible. Aside from the bruise on Sherlock's temple, his bottom lip is swollen and cut, and his left cheek is a faint red. John can almost make out a hand impression, implying that Sherlock had somehow gotten slapped.

"Jesus Christ!" John exclaims, shocked.

"Don't," Sherlock warns. "Don't make a big deal out of it."

John scoffs. "Make a big deal out it? Who did this to you?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters! I thought you were all done getting beat up by now! Unless you like it or something? Is that it? You enjoy getting slapped? Did Moriarty twist your mind up that much?"

"Oh shut up, John," Sherlock sneers, and both of them realize that was the first time Moriarty's name had been mentioned since his arrest. But the realization dies quickly as Sherlock continues speaking. "It's not like that."

"Then what?"

There's a pause. John gives Sherlock time to answer.

And then Sherlock parts his swollen lips. "It was Anderson."

"Anderson?" John asks, almost in disbelief. He had never thought Anderson to be the bully type. He thought Anderson was just plain stupid.

Sherlock sighed. "Apparently word of our…relationship has spread around campus like wildfire."

"I've noticed."

At this, Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "You mean, you're not responsible?"

John actually laughs. "Me? For a moment I thought you were responsible!"

"So, you haven't told anyone?"

"Not a soul. Well, except a few friends." John hesitates. "I hope you don't mind."

"Not in the slightest," Sherlock reassures him. "I couldn't have cared who you told."

"Even if they took it out on you?"

Sherlock blinks at John like John was supposed to know the answer already. "John, I don't mind. Really."

"But look at what they did to you!" John exclaims, taking Sherlock's face in his hands to prove it. "They've hurt you!" His thumb caresses Sherlock's clotting lip tenderly, but Sherlock still winces at the contact.

"I don't care."

John shakes his head somberly, his eyebrows furrowed in great frustration. "Stop. Stop saying that. Don't you fucking dare say that." He leans forward to rest his forehead against Sherlock's. He sighs. "When will you finally understand how much you mean to me, Sherlock? I can't…I can't see you hurt like this again. I just can't. I can't take this. It needs to end. Do you hear me?"

Sherlock slides warm, slender fingers up John's forearm until they settle on grasping the back of John's hands still cupping his bruised face. They lock eyes, faces so close they can practically gaze into each other's souls, and Sherlock can feel each and every one of John's current emotions.

"I hear you," he whispers, the words slipping past his battered lips breathlessly.

John sighs again and plants a tender kiss against Sherlock's forehead before backing away. His hands fall to Sherlock's shoulders and he gives Sherlock a firm shake. "We're going to find the culprit-whoever leaked our relationship. All right?"

Sherlock nods. "All right."

"Good." And John steps away and picks up his cold, probably infested with chemical fumes, tea to take a sip. He walks away to slump on the couch, where he proceeds to turn on the television without asking permission.

Sherlock goes back to his experiment.

And then John speaks again. "Did you at least punch him back?"

"Why should I have?"

John sits up in shock. "You mean you just let Anderson hit you like that? You should have hit him back!"

"And sink to his level? I'd rather not. I'd get low IQ all over my knuckles."

"Oh my god." John slaps his own face. "No. No, Sherlock, you listen to me. Hey-are you listening?-listen to me, next time someone tries to smack you around, you give them a good pop in the jaw-I don't care how stupid they are. Getting infected by a bit of low intelligence is worth not having your face painted with fists."

And Sherlock agrees. "Yes, John."


	25. Chapter 25

John has come to terms with the fact that one of his friends is a traitor.

He is set on finding out just who.

In order to investigate, he decides to invite his friends over and interrogate them. After all, sometimes the blunt truth is better than beating around the bush. It's certainly less tedious.

They all order Chinese food and sit around making fun of game show contestants on the television.

"My god, I've never seen anyone that blonde! Her hair is so bright! Everyone look away, it's dangerous to look directly into the sun!" Sarah jokes, and everyone laughs.

As Little Miss Sunshine proceeds to answer five questions wrong in a row, John clears his throat and begins his interrogation with a simple observation. "So, Sherlock got beat up the other day."

"Oh no!" Clara gasps.

"Oh my god!" Sarah exclaims.

"Well I wouldn't doubt it," Mike says nonchalantly. And of course three pairs of shocked-perhaps mortified eyes are on him so he rolls his eyes and shrugs a bit. "Well John, you are dating a bit of a prick."

John is quite surprised at Mike. His roommate, his best friend. "What are you saying, Mike?"

"Oh, nothing," Mike defends himself. "I'm just saying that there's a lot of people who'd like to give him a good pop to the jaw."

"What reason could they possibly have for doing that?" John asks.

Mike scoffs. "Are you kidding me? Sherlock is an absolute dick! I don't know if you've noticed because when you're dating someone you tend to oversee their flaws, but he's an utter bastard. Did you hear what happened the other day with Molly Hooper? He insulted her lip shape and she looked like she was going to cry all class!"

"Well I know he's a bit of a jerk," John admits. "I'm not completely blind to his insolence. But…I'm just saying, other than that there's no reason to beat him up, right? For being…oh, I don't know, gay?"

Mike cocks his head to the side. "What the hell are you going on about? As far as the rest of campus is concerned, Sherlock doesn't have an interest in anything with a face, much less men! Unless somebody has been spreading rumors?"

"That's exactly what's been going on!" John's voice suddenly raises as his excitement grows. "You know, at every class I've gone to I've been questioned by dozens of people about my relationship with Sherlock! 'Have you two boned each other yet?' 'Is Sherlock Holmes even capable of achieving an erection?' 'How good of a snogger is he?' It's ridiculous and volatile and crass! Someone is responsible, and I never told anyone, and Sherlock never told anyone, so who did? Satan?"

At that point, Clara makes an odd choking noise. John snaps his neck around immediately to stare at her. He finds it interesting that Clara is unable to make eye contact.

John blinks a couple times. "…Clara?" No response. "Clara, was this all you?"

Clara turns her head away and balls her hands into fists at her side.

"Clara, you told!" John exclaims.

Clara bites her bottom lip thoughtfully before choking out "I'm sorry."

John is overwhelmed. He furrows his eyebrows and shouts "I can't believe you!"

Clara flinches and shuts her eyes tight. "Please don't yell at me!"

"Don't yell?" John scoffs. "Clara, I'm being taunted! Sherlock is hurt right now! His fucking face is bleeding!"

"I know!" Clara screams. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean it, I swear!"

"How could you not have meant it?!" John hisses.

"Stop!" Sarah suddenly interjects. "Stop it, John, don't patronize her! She said she didn't mean it!"

John is taken aback. Clara obviously looks sorry enough. John knows Clara is a delicate creature. She can't take much criticism. Obviously it had been a mistake. John shouldn't be angry. Accidents do happen.

John sits back and pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers. "All right," he sighs. "What happened?"

Clara's bottom lip quivers before she begins speaking. "It just…slipped, is all. I was talking to Sally Donovan, and she said she fancied you. And I…I told her that you were spoken for. When she inquired by who, I realized I had said too much, but she was really persistent and I gave in and told her. She got really offended and left in a storm, and she must have spread the rumors. I'm sorry, John, really I am. I'm sorry if you hate me now."

John's expression softens. He shakes his head at her slowly. "Oh, Clara. I don't hate you."

"Are you still upset?"

"Excruciatingly." And then John gives her a faint smile. "But I suppose I'll learn to deal, hmm?"

* * *

John figures the teasing would go away eventually. Something new would happen around campus and spark everyone's interest and John's relationship with Sherlock would be forgotten news.

Unfortunately, life is dreary for university students and John and Sherlock remain the highlights of everyone's day.

John went to Lestrade after Sherlock had gotten beaten up and explained the predicament. Lestrade vowed not to let Sherlock out of his sight, thus keeping him off the hit list. Nobody dared touch Sherlock with Lestrade around, not because Lestrade was intimidating, but because his father was. That sort of let Lestrade down a little bit, but John had assured him that he'd grow up to be the most intimidating officer of Scotland Yard in just a few years time.

While walking to class, Anderson walks by John, giving him a little shove as he glides past. "How's you and the freak? Is he getting bored of you yet?"

"Shut up, Anderson," John snaps, the most annoyed he's ever been in quite a long while.

He goes back to his dormitory to find a cleverly placed piece of paper taped to his front door with the words "John Watson is a fairy" scribbled across it. He snarls in annoyance as he forcefully tears the paper from the door and enters his room.

Mike is already inside, steadily typing on his laptop. He watches John angrily throw the taunting message into the trash and sighs. "Another one?"

"I'm going to Sherlock's," John snarls back in reply, slamming the door shut behind him.

Sherlock is at his desk with an open chemistry textbook sprawled in front of him when John enters the room. He recognizes John's presence but doesn't look up. How typical.

John sighs audibly enough for Sherlock to hear as he makes his way towards him, standing over behind Sherlock and nonchalantly sliding a hand down the front of Sherlock's silk linen-covered chest. He sighs again.

Sherlock has learned to interpret John's dramatic sighing as a way to inaudibly say "let's talk." He would obviously rather finish his reading, but he rolls his eyes and parts his lips to speak. "Don't give in. That's what they want," he tells John.

"I know," John agrees, caressing Sherlock's clothed chest absentmindedly. "It's just annoying is all." He leans forward to press his lips against the top of Sherlock's head, kissing the mess of soft dark curls. "How do you do it? Ignore everything?"

Sherlock flips a page in his textbook before he answers. "Perhaps it's a trait learned over years."

John furrows his eyebrows at this. He doesn't like to think about young Sherlock very often. He imagines Sherlock might have had a rather depressing childhood. He's not exactly a social creature, and John can only imagine the teasing and bullying that must have gone on in grade school. Children do tend to be heartless little bastards, and some of them never truly grow up.

"I love you," John says all of a sudden, kissing Sherlock's head again.

Sherlock doesn't respond.

John drops his head to plant a small kiss at Sherlock's temple. "I love you," he repeats with his lips pressed against Sherlock's skin.

Sherlock doesn't even flinch, his eyes transfixed on the textbook before him.

A peck on Sherlock's cheek. A small kiss at the bottom of his jaw. The side of his neck. Where his throat meets his collarbone. John pulls Sherlock's shirt to the side to kiss his shoulder, all the while mumbling "I love you" over and over again as Sherlock continues to be indifferent.

"Let's have sex," John says, nuzzling his face against Sherlock's long, slender neck.

Sherlock flips the page. "John, please, I'm studying."

"So am I." John wraps his arms around Sherlock's thin waist, drawing his hands up Sherlock's chest. "Anatomy 101. I've got an exam coming up, care to help me study?" He catches the tip of Sherlock's ear between his teeth, scraping ever so gently.

Sherlock slams the textbook shut almost immediately.


	26. Chapter 26

John never thought relationships were easy. Oh, he's had his share of failed relationships. Surprisingly he's never had a problem getting the ladies-it's keeping them that he's not expert at. No matter what he does, how hard he tries, he always manages to unknowingly do or say something offensive that will send a girl running out of his home in a lightening flash, never to be heard of again.

He's been cheated on, too. His first girlfriend, in fact, back in secondary school, was rather promiscuous and not the brightest crayon in the box, and had created a rather lewd sex tape with an older man while she was dating John-a tape that had leaked within three days and had left John utterly heartbroken.

Once, his relationship with a girl ended when she had to move to Scotland. He had offered to keep up long distance, but she had declined, saying it would be too much of a hassle.

Still, of all the challenges John had faced while dating, none were as difficult as Sherlock Holmes. Never in a million years would John have ever expected he would be taunted for being in a relationship with another man. This, he was not prepared for.

"I'm rather disappointed with this exam," the professor explains as he hands out papers. One by one the sound of groaning fills the air as students lay eyes on their horrible marks. "With a few exceptions, these are the lowest marks I've ever seen in my life. Therefore, to everyone who failed, I'm conducting a mandatory study group this evening at seven. I expect to see you there."

John swallows hard, quite fearful because let's face it, no student ever wants to attend a mandatory study group. He braces himself for the worse when his exam is handed back-and then he nearly faints.

He's gotten a rather high mark! Nearly perfect, actually, which is peculiar considering he had spent the entire night before that exam playing board games with Sherlock-not their brightest idea, mind you, as Sherlock tends to become more than competitive.

The student behind him peers over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of his score and scoff. Evidently the man had failed. Obviously jealous of John's marks. So he decides to counter attack with a rather intelligent insult. "At least I'm not gay," he sneers.

John snaps his head around to stare the man right in the face. "I'm not-," he says on impulse, but when he sees the man raise his eyebrow in bewilderment he stops himself in his tracks and sighs in frustration. He really can't say he's not gay anymore. He's in a relationship with another man, after all. "Oh sod off," he hisses instead, fixing his eyes back onto the front of the room.

For the entire rest of class he can feel the back of his head being pelted by bits of paper-the man behind him slowly ripping up his exam and balling the pieces up and bouncing them off John's head. It takes all of John's will power to ignore it all.

* * *

"John, what you need is a party."

"No, what I need the least is a party, Sarah," John sighs in frustration again. He seems to be doing that more often than not nowadays.

"Come on," Sarah urges, latching onto John's arm. "You need to get drunk. And bring your boyfriend."

"Yes, because hanging around with Sherlock in public is definitely going to help the rumors," John agrees in the most sarcastic way possible.

Sarah frowns. "Oh shut up about the rumors, nobody even cares. It's just something new to talk about is all because university is b-o-r-i-n-g." She accentuates practically every letter in the word.

"Sherlock won't come. He hates parties." John tries to make an excuse.

"He'll go if you go."

"No he won't."

"He will if you drag him."

"Sarah, I am not dragging him around! Especially not to Anderson's! That man is a vile, disgusting excuse for a human being and I'm pretty sure he has the intelligence of a primary school student!"

Sarah rolls her eyes. "You don't have to talk to him, my god, you just have to drink his alcohol."

"I have an exam to study for."

"Since when has that ever stopped you?"

"Sarah."

"John."

"No."

"Yes."

And so here they are. John and Sherlock. Sitting on Anderson's couch. Bored and miserable. Both of them probably regretting everything they've ever done in their life ever.

"_John, I'm not going."_

"_Come on, it's for Sarah."_

"_I don't care."_

"_It's for me?"_

_No response._

"_Come on, Sherlock. Humor me a little. I need a couple drinks anyways." _

"…_fine." _

Worst decision of their lives.

John stands up abruptly. "I'm getting a beer. Want one?"

Sherlock shrugs. "Anything."

So John leaves to go pick up two beers.

When he comes back, Sherlock is being felt up by a strange man.

John is rather shocked and very nearly drops the beers. There, right in front of his eyes, is his boyfriend, sitting there as far to the right on the sofa as humanely possible, looking the most uncomfortable John has ever seen him, with his fists balled against his sides as a strange hand creeps slowly up his thigh. His chest isn't moving-he's not breathing, his breath caught in his throat like he's waiting for this to be over before he can function again. John watches the man whisper something into Sherlock's ear that makes Sherlock shudder and twist his face in the most disgusted way. He watches Sherlock lean away as the man scoots ever closer, his hand still sliding up Sherlock's leg seductively and his lips hovering mere centimeters away from Sherlock's face.

"Hey!" John snaps, storming up to the pair with both beers in his hands.

The man looks at John like he's startled, stares into John's firm, unforgiving eyes, and scampers away into the crowd like he's scared.

Sherlock doesn't relax until John takes the seat next to him, to which he then begins to breathe a deep sigh of relief.

John hands him a beer and Sherlock takes it willingly. They sit in silence for a while, neither of them willing to discuss what had just happened. And then John speaks. "Who was that?"

"I haven't the slightest idea," Sherlock admits. "But his parents are divorced."

"How did you…?" But John's voice trails off. "Never mind." He shakes his head. One learns not to question Sherlock's deductions. Instead, he looks down at Sherlock's hands, still balled up into tight fists. He covers one with his own hand as some sort of reassurance. "You okay?"

Sherlock's fist immediately softens under John's. "I'm okay."

"Ugh."

Both their heads snap around to the direction of the feminine voice. Their eyes lock onto a girl neither of them had seen before. John is completely bewildered while Sherlock instantly begins the deductions. Very recently broken up with her boyfriend. Comes from a wealthy family. Older brother who has just been deployed. No, sister.

"Can you two like, get a room?" She sneers, sloshing a cup of alcohol around in her hand.

John's gaze ventures towards the crowd. In one corner of the room, Sarah is being felt up by a rather obese man. In the other, a young couple is pressed against the wall eating each other's faces off. In the center of the crowd, several genitals are touching as couple grind up against each other. John then looks down at where he and Sherlock were joined at the hand. A rather innocent gesture, really. He then looks up at the young female and answers "You know what? Maybe we will." And then he stands up, his hand still in Sherlock's.

Sherlock follows suit, surprised, and the two of them walk past the girl, John leading the way.

They exit the room and walk outside, John intending on going back to Sherlock's dorm.

They walk in silence, hands still joined together. John's fingers are firm around Sherlock's.

Sherlock stops in his tracks, pulling on John's hand until he stops too.

John turns around to face Sherlock and finds the genius looking down at the ground, his expression rather sad.

"Sherlock?" John inquires, stepping closer.

At first, Sherlock doesn't speak. He just stares at his feet, and John watches his perfect lips quiver slightly, almost like Sherlock is afraid.

"Sherlock," John repeats, his tone a bit more firm.

This time, Sherlock is finally able to open his mouth. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

John blinks. "What? Why?"

Sherlock licks his bottom lip. "You're being teased. Because of your affiliation with me."

John sputters, then scoffs, and then he takes holds both of Sherlock's hands in his own and squeezes tightly. "Stop saying that. Don't you remember? I'm the one who pursued you in the first place!"

"Yes," Sherlock agrees. "But you probably never imagined something like this."

"I never imagined finding mutilated frog carcasses in my tea either," John laughs. "And yet here we are." He sighs and rubs his thumbs against Sherlock's palms. "Look, Sherlock. If I leave you because of something stupid like this, then they'll have won. I'm fine with it, really."

Sherlock finally looks up from the ground. "Really?"

"I'm still here, aren't I?" John laughs.

And then Sherlock breaks free from John's hands just long enough to wrap his arms around John, pulling him into his chest and squeezing tight enough to stop John from breathing. He laughs and buries his face into John's hair. "Oh, John," he breathes out.

John's response is to sneak his hands up Sherlock's back to return the hug.

"I can't even remember my life before you," Sherlock says, and that's probably the most romantic thing he's ever uttered in his life.

"It must have been dull," John jokes.

"Quite."


	27. Chapter 27

At around three am John's eyes shoot wide open. A familiar sound rings through his ears and he turns to the side, peering over the edge of the bed to where the sound that had woken him up resided.

John sighs in frustration and shifts himself a little more comfortable on the bed.

Sherlock sits on the floor, his back against the side of the bed frame with his legs crossed and his guitar in his lap.

"Is that necessary?" John mumbles, still mostly asleep.

Sherlock only continues strumming. It isn't any song in particular-just chords, but it works out in a way that John can't really explain, mostly because it's three in the morning.

John lets out a small groan and reaches a hand down to stroke the top of Sherlock's head thoughtfully, letting his fingers run through the soft dark curls. "Go to sleep," he murmurs. A useless command-Sherlock can hardly sleep once he's awake-but it seems like the appropriate thing to say.

"Can't," Sherlock responds-how predictable. "I'm thinking."

John can't help but let his lips curl up into a lazy smile, his eyes slowly closing again as he slurs "whatareyou thinking about?" He traces a particularly curly curl on Sherlock's head with the tip of his finger.

"Everything," is Sherlock's response. "Mostly you."

"Oh, don't think about me," John pleads.

"Sssh," Sherlock shuts him up, his fingers plucking steadily at his instrument.

So John does shut up. For a moment. He lets himself fall back into sleep, petting Sherlock like one would pet a dog. It's a rather peaceful moment, much like John's life used to be. Boring and mundane. Ever since meeting Sherlock, John's days have been filled with excitement and running around. He was never bored, to say the least, but at the same time…he was never bored. And being bored sometimes was a good thing.

"Sherlock," John croaks.

Sherlock responds by strumming away at his guitar.

"Sherlock," John repeats. "Let's visit my parents this weekend."

Instantly, the music halts and Sherlock's hand freezes over the guitar strings. Without ever looking at John, Sherlock questions "do you want to?"

"Sure," John tells him. "They don't live that far away and I haven't seen them since Christmas. Besides, we need a little break from all this conforming university life. The dorm walls are a horrendous color, and I bet my parents will love you."

Sherlock hesitates, something he doesn't do very often. "John," he warns. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah," John assures him. "It's not like they haven't had a gay child before."

Time lingers for a while as Sherlock contemplates a response. Eventually, he lets out a sigh and gives in. "All right." And he begins to play again.

John smiles again and gives Sherlock a little pat on the head. "Love you."

Sherlock responds with another strum on his guitar.

* * *

When John says 'it's not like they haven't had a gay child before' he doesn't take into account that his parents only have two children in the first place, and both of them being gay tends to lessen the probability of having children of their own and continuing the family tree. When Harry came out of the closet, their parents were shocked and perhaps a bit frustrated. It wasn't that they were super conservative or anything, it was more like a "I've heard of this happening but why is it happening to me" situation, where their parents simply couldn't believe they could have a gay child in the first place. In the end, it was probably their hope in John finding a decent lady to settle down with and start a family that helped them accept their newfound knowledge of their daughter's sexuality.

To say that John's parents were devastated upon Sherlock being introduced to them as their son's boyfriend would be an understatement.

"_John! What a pleasant surprise! Come on in-oh look you've brought a friend! What's this lovely young gentleman's name?"_

"_Mum, this is Sherlock."_

"_Oh! Wonderful to meet you, Sherlock!"_

"_The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Watson."_

"_Mum, Sherlock and I are sort of dating."_

"…_John, I think we might need to have a talk with your father."_

For a long time, Sherlock sits in the parlor with Harry, awkwardly listening to John arguing with his parents about how he's an adult who can do whatever he damn well pleases. He tries to focus on deducing Harry from head to toe, but distraction is inevitable. Harriet Watson. Older, probably late twenties, recovering alcoholic-which is why she lives with her parents. Recently involved in a relationship-it's not serious yet but it seems to be heading in that direction-and obviously not the favorite child. The way she carelessly swings her legs as she sits on the arm of the sofa indicate to Sherlock that, although certainly a smart individual, she could never match her younger brother's intelligence, and therefore never had to worry about her parents expecting too much of her. Especially now that she's a recovering alcoholic with no life ambitions and her brother is a medical student with hopes and dreams.

"Get that stick out of your arse and slouch a little," Harry snorts. "What century do you live in?"

The insult only prompts Sherlock to sit even straighter. "How is rehabilitation?" He retorts.

Harry gasps and appears quite offended. "He told you, the little bugger!"

"He didn't tell you, I deduced it the moment I met him. You can tell by his phone, you see-."

He gets cut off by Harry's sudden laughter. She giggles and holds her stomach and tries to speak all at the same time. "You're kidding, right? My brother fell for an obnoxious brat like you?"

This time it's Sherlock's turn to be offended. "Excuse me?"

"You're not his type," Harry explains.

Sherlock blinks. "Does that matter?"

Harry shrugs. "No, I suppose not. I guess in a way I'm sort of glad. You seem to be pretty monogamous. That's what John needs in his life-a little stability. Maybe you're good for him."

Just then, John bursts through the kitchen and into the parlor long enough to grab Sherlock by the wrist and declare they're going upstairs to unpack.

"Has it all been resolved?" Sherlock asks as he is being pulled away.

"Shut up," John hisses back.

* * *

When supper rolls by, Sherlock finds himself in an awkward position in which he sits beside John-at a reasonable distance-and across John's father, a strongly built military man whose eyes are fixated, almost glaring at Sherlock. At his side sits John's mother, a pretty face who can't seem to look at Sherlock at all. Nobody speaks to each other.

Sherlock isn't hungry, as per usual, but he picks at the meatloaf in front of him and swallows small bites out of pure politeness.

It is Harry who comes to save the day when she sparks up a conversation with Sherlock. She clears her throat and asks "So, Sherlock, what's your major?"

"Chemistry," Sherlock responds almost immediately. He watches John's father give a short nod, as if he approves of Sherlock's study choices.

Harry lets out a whistle. "Chemistry, huh? That always flew over my head in school. And you do it for fun?"

Sherlock shrugs. "For the experiments."

Conversation yet again dies until John's mother picks up, obviously trying to save the meal if nothing else. She looks up at Sherlock for the first time since they've met and asks "Do you have any siblings as well?"

"One," Sherlock answers. "An older brother named Mycroft."

Suddenly, John's father perks up. "Mycroft?" He cocks his head to the side rather curiously. "Mycroft Holmes?"

Sherlock nods.

John's father gives a short laugh. "What a small world! I've worked with Mycroft before. He's a proper young fellow. About Harry's age, no?"

"Twenty eight, yes." And John can see Sherlock try to hold back the disgust he feels over discussing Mycroft at the dinner table. He still has yet to understand why Sherlock feels such despondence towards his older brother, but he had never gotten around to questioning it.

The rest of the meal is spent slowly forgetting about John's sexuality in favor of conversations about mainly Mycroft. Not that John minds, as it appears that his parents-while they might need time to approve of their relationship-do not have any sort of vendetta against Sherlock as a person.

Sherlock is given the guest room to inhabit, since sleeping in John's room might still be a bit traumatizing to his parents, but at around midnight, after all the lights are off and Sherlock is positive the coast is clear, he skillfully sneaks out of the guest room and into John's bed, quietly slipping underneath the covers.

John, who had been on the verge of falling asleep, turns to face Sherlock and the two of them are magnetized to each other, John's hands grabbing Sherlock's face to press their lips together and Sherlock's arms wrapping around John's back to lazily stroke John's back through the thin cotton of his T-shirt.

"Sherlock," John whispers against Sherlock's mouth.

"Mmm?" Is Sherlock's response, occupied with slowly trailing kisses down John's jawline.

John lets out a heavy contented sigh and practically rolls his eyes into the back of his head. "Oh, Sherlock," he groans in bliss. "Sherlock, tomorrow we're going on a real proper date."

"Mmmhmm," Sherlock mumbles, paying more attention to John's outstretched and very defined neck.


	28. Chapter 28

"_Yes, Sherlock, we have to go."_

"_It seems dull."_

"_Dull is good. Besides, it's a fantastic restaurant."_

"_Not hungry."_

"_Oh don't you pull that card on me, we're having a real proper date if it kills us-don't you groan at me like that!"_

It isn't a particularly fancy restaurant. The napkins aren't folded into swans and the waiters don't wear crisp black bowties, but it's reasonably nice. The sort of restaurant one might take his family to on pay day. The sort of restaurants John insists people go on for normal dates.

When the waiter shows up, John orders a simple breaded pork chop, green beans on the side-no onions, thank you.

"Nothing for me," Sherlock tells the waiter, only to have John reach over and harshly grab his wrist.

"Oh no you don't," John hisses, digging his nails into the flesh of Sherlock's wrist. "I will _not_ sit here and eat while you watch me like I'm a fool. Now pick something or I will find you the most repulsive thing on the menu and force it down your throat and I won't care who watches."

Whether it's because Sherlock feels sympathy for John or because he's afraid John will carry out on his threat, Sherlock clears his throat and tells the waiter he'll have whatever John's having.

The waiter smirks a little bit. "All right then boys. And I'll get a candle for the table-it's more romantic."

John opens his mouth to speak but by then the waiter had turned around and strode back to the kitchen. So instead, John faces Sherlock and, with a concerned look on his face, asks "are we really that obvious?"

"Well with the way you're grabbing my wrist, yes," Sherlock states bluntly.

John immediately lets go of Sherlock and drops his hand down to his lap. Then he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "That's okay then," he says. "If people know."

Sherlock leans forward a bit, one eyebrow raised. "Are you sure?"

"Of course," John nods. "I'm not embarrassed or anything."

"You might get harassed."

"So might you."

"I'm used to it."

Suddenly, John lightly slams his palm against the table. "Dammit, Sherlock, I hate when you talk like that."

Sherlock leans back in his seat, startled, and keeps his mouth shut.

"It's not natural," John tells him. "Nobody's supposed to be used to being harassed, do you understand me? And if you go down, I'll go down and we'll go down together and-hey, don't open your mouth-and there's nothing you can do to stop it. You're not getting rid of me so easily again, you hear?" He inhales sharply.

And Sherlock sinks down into his chair and averts his gaze away from John. There's a long pause, and then Sherlock nods slowly. John finally exhales and then Sherlock licks his lips and parts them just enough to say "thank you."

John leans back in his chair and nods sharply. "That's more like it."

They sit in silence until the waiter returns with their identical meals-and the promised candle.

And thus the idle chatter begins.

"So, I hope Harry hasn't been harassing you too much," John says in-between bites.

Sherlock, who hadn't yet touched his plate, shrugs. "She's an interesting character. And I see her alcohol addiction has hit the whole family hard."

John pauses mid-chew as he reminisces Harry's alcoholic tendencies and Sherlock's struggles with drugs. Indeed addiction played a large part in his life, but John tended to fare pretty well with deal with the addicted. He snorts a bit, imagining giving up medical school in favor of becoming a sober companion.

About halfway through John's meal, he finally looks across the table to find that Sherlock hadn't even yet picked up his fork. He inhales sharply and flashes Sherlock a cold stare. He takes his utensil and points it right at Sherlock's face. "Eat. Or this fork is going in your eye."

"Not hungry," is Sherlock's answer.

"I mean it."

"Not. Hungry," Sherlock accentuates, leaning over the table as if it made him more menacing.

"Eat it," John hisses.

"If I eat it I'll throw up."

"I don't care."

"I'll vomit all over your bed," Sherlock snarls.

John leans over the table as well, his eyes narrowing sharply to show Sherlock that indeed two could play at this game. "I'll use that mop of hair on your head to clean it all up."

Sherlock straightens his back and, for whatever reason, picks up his fork and stabs it into his pork chop.

He eats unhappily and makes a big show out of expressing to John just how unhappy he is.

John rolls his eyes. "Come on Sherlock," he practically whines. "People already think you're anorexic."

"I'm not," Sherlock defends himself.

"I know that," John replies. "And you know that, but other people don't know that, and besides your dietary habits are so ridiculously unhealthy anyways."

"I can't eat while I'm thinking," Sherlock argues.

"You're on vacation," John scoffs. "In a restaurant with good food that's all peace and quiet. What could you possibly be thinking about?"

"You," is Sherlock's instant answer.

John opens his mouth to say something, then instantly shuts it again. His lips press into a tight thin line and he sets his fork down on the table. He adjusts himself on his seat and then says "if you're sitting there thinking you don't deserve me I'm going to beat you with that chicken on your plate."

"It's not that," Sherlock tells him. "Just…you. Everything about you. The way you walk with your back straight and your eyes forward. How you speak with conviction every time you open that damn mouth of yours. How you can just sit there loving me. And especially the way you suck my-,"

"Oy!" John cuts him off. They're in a family restaurant for god's sake! But then he sighs and reaches over to cover Sherlock's hand with his own-privacy be damned. "Hey, don't think so much okay?"

"I wish," Sherlock sighs back. "I wish I could stop thinking."

John gives him a sympathetic smile. "I know. I know it's hard. Just try, okay? For me? And just eat a little, all right?"

Sherlock cocks his head to the side and interlaces their fingers together. "I can do that."

"Thank you," John says. And then his voice gets into a low whisper. "And if you're good for the rest of the evening, later on you can show me just how good I am at sucking your-,"

"John," Sherlock warns him playfully. "Think of the children."

"You hush up."


	29. Chapter 29

**aaaand I'm going to be wrapping this thing up in about a chapter or so**

**surprise**

* * *

"John," Sherlock gasps, arching his back off the bed and tightening his grip on John's head.

John buries his face into Sherlock's bare collarbone, planting soft, intimate kisses onto the thin flesh.

"Oh god," Sherlock breathes, eyes practically rolling into the back of his head. "John, please, we can't."

"None of your limbs are broken," John whispers against Sherlock's skin. "We most certainly can."

"Let me rephrase that," Sherlock says, hugging John's head tightly. "I won't."

"I know something that disagrees with you," John smirks, reaching his hand down to stroke the zipper of Sherlock's trousers, making Sherlock buck his hips up involuntarily.

"John!" Sherlock hisses. "We are not having sex under your family's roof! It's disrespectful!"

John growls and lightly bites down on Sherlock's shoulder. "And since when have you cared so much about respect?"

"Since I've decided I don't want your family to hate me," Sherlock answers, although he makes no effort to stop John from unbuttoning his trousers.

John slides up Sherlock's body and plants a small trail of kisses up Sherlock's neck as he goes. "And what are you going to do about it, push me away?"

Sherlock shudders in ecstasy, bites his lower lip, and shuts his eyes tightly closed. He doesn't have the will power to stop John and John knows this. This is teasing, and it's not fair.

"You need this," John whispers, gently kissing Sherlock's jaw. Then he presses his lips against Sherlock's. "You want this," he growls against Sherlock's lips. "You love this."

Sherlock only moans in response. His hands don't leave John's hair as John slides his palms down Sherlock's chest, fingers lingering over sensitive flesh. Then when John's fingers hook underneath the waistband of Sherlock's trousers, Sherlock lifts his hips to help John slide the trousers down his legs. "We shouldn't do this," Sherlock groans, although they both know the words are meaningless at this point.

Both clad in nothing but pants, John presses their heated bodies together, hips grinding against one another and Sherlock has to release one of his hands' grip on John's head to cover his own mouth to keep from crying out.

"It's too late to stop now," John whispers into Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock sobs out an agreement.

John takes Sherlock's hand and removes it from his mouth so that they can crash their lips together once again.

They move together in harmony like that, hips grinding against each other in a slow but heated frenzy and lips slowly sucking the life out of each other in the best way possible.

Just then, there's a knock on the door and both men freeze dead still.

Their eyes meet in a shared panic and John asks quietly "the door is locked, right?"

Sherlock nods quickly.

Then a voice calls from the other side of the door. A female voice. "Oy, boys, not that I mind or anything, but if you get any louder mum and dad are gonna hear you downstairs and I don't think they'd appreciate all the gay shagging so if you're gonna fuck, fuck quietly."

John growls and drops his head to Sherlock's shoulder. Hips still pressed together, he can feel both their erections slowly fading away. "Good job Harry," he snaps aloud. "You've killed the mood."

"That's what big sisters are for," Harry cries out in a singsong voice.

"Go away!"

"You'll thank me later when mum doesn't come knocking on the door asking 'what is it, who's screaming oh god Sherlock fuck me harder!'"

"Harry I swear!"

She laughs and then her voice fades away into the distance.

John heaves a great big sigh. "Well Sherlock, I guess you always get what you want in the end."

Sherlock gives John a small smile and hooks his arms around John's neck. "She's a real character isn't she?"

John snorts in disgust.

Sherlock lifts his head a bit to capture John's lips in one last kiss. "You go to sleep now, all right?"

John complies and lays down beside his lover, draping one arm across Sherlock's flat chest. "Only if you do too."

"Of course," Sherlock smiles, slowly drifting to sleep thinking about how nice it must be to have a normal family like John's.

* * *

The next morning the duo leaves for university again. Hopefully by now another big story will have swept through campus and all the hype revolving their relationship will have long disappeared.

There are hugs all around as they stand halfway out the door.

"And promise to call every once in a while," John's mother commands as if she'll never see her son again.

It surprises Sherlock when John's mother traps him in a hug as well, whispering into his ear "and you be good to my son or I'll haunt you to the grave and beyond."

And John's father gives Sherlock a firm handshake, although he remains silent throughout the ordeal.

"Oh," John's mother breathes out, touching her cheek with a hand. "My, Harry, he's picked a handsome one hasn't he?"

Harry smirks and crosses her arms over her chest. "If you can get past that shaggy mop on his head."

Sherlock decides to return the smirk and let the insult fly over his head. He does give Harry an acknowledging nod though. But then his face turns serious and he places a firm hand on Harry's shoulder. "And good luck," he says, "with your rehab. I know it must be difficult too." And with that one look, they exchange glances and Harry can already tell Sherlock truly does know-more than anyone else-because he's lived through it. Her little brother was dating an ex-junkie. Hell, her little brother was probably the reason Sherlock was an _ex-_junkie in the first place. Upon that realization, she covers her mouth with her hand a little in shock, and nods quickly at Sherlock. John. John Watson, brave and sturdy and brilliant. And perhaps she sees her little brother in a new light.


	30. Chapter 30

**aaaand I'm going to be wrapping this thing up in about a chapter or so**

**surprise**

* * *

Just as John suspected, by the time they had returned, the campus was in a riot around a fresh new rumor-a transvestite in the linguistics department.

"_Of course she's biologically a male," Sherlock scoffs. "I thought it was obvious."_

_John sighs. "You always tend to forget that not everyone shares your brain."_

"_But it was obvious."_

"_Sherlock, just shut up."_

When mid-term exams roll around the corner, John finds himself in a panic.

"John, relax and you'll do fine," Sherlock assures him. Standing behind John who sits at his desk frantically reading his medical textbook cover to cover, Sherlock drapes his arms over John's shoulders and leans forward to plant a kiss at the side of John's temple.

"Easy for you to say," John snaps, flipping the page. "If you fail you've got your brother to take care of things and ensure you still bloody graduate."

Sherlock sighs. With John in full-study mode, life is dull. "You're smart," he compliments John. "Of course you'll do well."

John's response is to stay silent and ignore the lingering genius.

"John," Sherlock whines, boredom consuming him.

John keeps quiet.

"John," Sherlock repeats.

John mumbles the bones of the hand to himself.

"John," Sherlock whispers, fingers tracing John's collarbone leisurely. "John please."

Still no reaction.

"John, I'm horny," Sherlock hisses seductively into John's ear. When that still elicits a silent response, Sherlock takes it to the next level. He dips his fingers down the collar of John's hideous sweater painstakingly slowly and gently presses his lips to the tip of John's ear. "Kiss me," he breathes out. "I want you, John. So bad. I want your cock. In my mouth. Would you like that, John?"

Beneath him, John shudders. He certainly has to study. Pre-med is no joke major. It requires hard work and dedication and studying for mid-terms. But a blowjob certainly sounds nice and John really can't control his slowly hardening erection.

Sherlock grins against John's ear, knowing he's finally gaining some response. Just a few steps further and he'll have John all to himself. "How about I bend over your desk and let you fuck me however you want?" Sherlock growls deeply. He carefully eyes the ever-growing bulge hidden underneath John's trousers and smirks to himself.

"Sherlock," John finally says. "Please, I need to study."

"What you need," Sherlock whispers, removing his hands from John's chest in favor of gently stroking John's thighs. "is my hand around your cock. I can do that, you know." His hands tease dangerously close to John's crotch. "Just a quick orgasm and you can get right back to studying. Or perhaps you'd prefer me to draw it out as long as possible, get you right there on the edge and keep you there for hours on end until you come so hard it'll knock you unconscious for two days straight."

Oh hell, John's not getting any studying done with all these distractions around him.

John, having given up, spins his chair around and grabs Sherlock's face, crashing their lips together. Sherlock gasps at John's sudden reaction, but kisses back with equal ferocity. He straddles across John's lap to close the distance between them.

"You," John snarls, biting down on Sherlock's bottom lip. "are the most pretentious," he pecks Sherlock's lips. "conceited," teeth clack together. "impatient dick I have ever had the misfortune to love."

Sherlock only moans in agreement.

So in the end, John gets his blowjob and his textbook goes untouched.

However, after all is done with John buttoning up his trousers and Sherlock still on his knees between John's legs, the door swings open and Mike waltzes into the room.

"Oh god," Mike gasps in horror. Simultaneously, John struggles to sit up straight, Sherlock scrambles to his feet, and Mike shields his eyes with his hand. "I thought you were going to Sherlock's room!"

"I left my textbook here," John stutters out an explanation. "Then I thought it'd be easier to just study here!"

"Well you didn't get much studying done, did you?"

"I…should leave," Sherlock observes.

John wastes no time in handing Sherlock his oversized coat.

"Honestly," Mike huffs. "you two are like horny prepubescent teenagers."

"Sorry," John stumbles out an apology. "Sorry."

So Sherlock is quick to leave and John is stuck to awkwardly evade his roommate for the rest of the day.

With Sherlock's distractions gone though, John can take the time to indulge in some serious studying.

When the mid-term results come in, John practically dances around Sherlock's dorm.

"Highest mark in the class," John sings. "Haven't failed a single one!"

Sherlock laughs and embraces John. He himself had managed to pass all his exams but English, although that was to be expected.

"You know I heard the faculty speaking," John informs Sherlock. "About your chemistry exam and how you didn't get a single question wrong. The professors are still baffled. 'Maybe we have to make the exams harder next year,' they said."

Sherlock scoffs at that. "They're trying to fail me without success. It doesn't really matter how hard they make the exams."

John laughs and gives him a quick peck on the nose. "Oh Sherlock, isn't this great? Neither of us are getting kicked out this semester!"


	31. Chapter 31

**warning: Final chapter. Surprise!**

* * *

In order to celebrate surviving another semester of uni, Sarah throws an end-of-the-semester-don't-leave-till-you're-drunk party that only about half the entire campus shows up to.

Sherlock and John take to standing in the corner of the room engrossing in idle chatter, each with a beer in hand.

Just a short while later, Lestrade appears before the two, face flushed red and obviously a bit tipsy. He shows up with a huge grin, like he had gotten everything on his Christmas list, and upon approaching the couple, he stumbles a little bit.

"John," he cries out excitedly. "John, I wanted to tell you something."

"You're dating Sally Donovan," Sherlock observes.

"What?" Both Lestrade and John call out in unison, eyes suddenly wide and staring right at Sherlock.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Oh please, you didn't expect I wouldn't be able to see that lipstick stain on your neck."

In response, Lestrade cautiously adjusted the collar of his shirt to cover more of his skin, suddenly self-conscious.

"Not only is the stain that horrid color of lipstick only Sally uses, but the position and angle of the mark is a match to her exact height."

"No…" Lestrade starts. "Well, yes, but that wasn't what I wanted to tell you. God, Sherlock, you always ruin the moment."

John shakes his head quickly. "Never mind him. What did you want?"

"It's my father," Lestrade tells them, his eyes wide. "I got a near perfect on my forensics exam and you know what he said to me?" He didn't wait for an answer before dropping his voice to mimic his father's. "He said 'son, maybe you've got it in you to be a great detective after all,'"

John lets out a laugh and claps his hands together. "Greg, that's wonderful!" And when Sherlock simply lets out a huff, John rolls his eyes. "Don't mind him. Sherlock's just upset that Mycroft chewed him out for failing his English exam."

"It's no concern of mine how Shakespeare shaped Renascence culture!" Sherlock tries to defend himself.

"That's not what you're supposed to write on your exam," John cries out. "You're supposed to humor the professor a little bit!"

But before things can get into a heated argument, Sally Donovan herself shows up to save the day, instantly latching herself onto Lestrade's arm. "Hello boys," she flashes a fake smile, her cheeks almost as red as Lestrade's. "Mind if I steal my man back from you?"

John throws his hands up. "Not at all."

"Great." And she drags Lestrade away, the both of them throwing "I love you"s and "I love you too"s at each other until they fade out in the distance.

"Ugh," Sherlock remarks in disgust.

"What?" John asks.

"They're not even in love."

"What?" John repeats, his tone a bit higher this time.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Come on, neither of their eyes dilate when looking at the other. There isn't any sort of physical indication of them being attracted to one another and yet they're still throwing around love confessions like they're nothing."

"So you think one should only confess that they love someone when they're absolutely sure they do?" John inquires, finding the conversation quite interesting.

"Of course," is Sherlock's blatant response.

"Well then, what about you?" John questions, raising an eyebrow.

Sherlock can see the expectant expression on John's face and hesitates. "Well, it's…you know."

"I love you," John states, his eyes locked onto Sherlock's and his expression suddenly serious. When his statement elicits no response, he poses a question. "Well? Don't you love me?"

Sherlock opens his mouth, but closes it thereafter and decides in favor of saying "is that even a necessary question? You already know the answer."

"Evidently I don't," John says. "Just answer the question. Do you love me or not?"

Silence.

"Sherlock?" Once again, John receives no reaction. Having quite enough, he stands up straight and presses his lips into a thin line. "I see," he says solemnly, and turns around to leave.

"Wait," Sherlock calls out, grabbing John's wrist swiftly, only to have John yank his hand out of Sherlock's grasp and begin to walk away. "John! John, they're just words!"

"Exactly!" John spins around on his heels to sharply face Sherlock. "They're just words! Words you can't even bring yourself to say! After everything, all we've been through, this entire time, and you never once told me you loved me! You can't even bring yourself to mutter three meaningless words!" He seems to want to say something more, stutters a little bit, and upon seeing Sherlock's hurt expression, shakes his head violently and throws his hands in the air. "I can't," he simply says, and turns back around to walk away, leaving Sherlock standing there all alone.

When Sherlock glances around the room, several pairs of eyes are on him. He can read their thoughts quite clearly. "What just happened?" "Did they finally have a falling out?" "Whose fault is it?" "Well, they're done." "Someone just got dumped."

A firm hand creeps onto Sherlock's shoulder and he finds Lestrade before him once again, a sympathetic expression upon his drunken face. "Aren't you going to chase after him?" He asks Sherlock.

Sherlock pulls himself together long enough to stand in a dignified manner and exhale sharply. "I don't chase. John is simply overreacting"

Lestrade shrugs. "Sometimes we've gotta chase after things in life. Otherwise, we might lose them forever."

Suddenly furious, Sherlock violently shakes Lestrade off his shoulder and walks away from the crowd.

* * *

John takes solace on his bed, sprawled out across the surface and his eyes transfixed on the dull-colored ceiling. It feels different, strange almost. John did rarely lay in this bed nowadays. His room is much cleaner than Sherlock's. Clothes don't cover the floor, homework doesn't lay strewn across like confetti, and the mattress is much less permanently stained with chemicals. This is John's room, and yet it is like a stranger to him.

There is, however, a familiar piece of material peeking out from under John's bed that he recognizes as one of Sherlock's shirts. He reaches over the side of the bed to grab it and hold it up over his head. He marvels at it in reminiscence. It was a shirt designed for tall thin men, but even then it often fell loose around Sherlock's waist. He takes it and covers his face in it, inhaling slowly in hopes of finding Sherlock's familiar scent still looming, but with no avail. Feeling like a pervert, he quickly throws the shirt back onto the floor.

He gets up and walks into the small university dorm-sized sitting room and realizes this room is a stranger to him as well. He sits on the couch that he recognizes as his own-a gift from his mother that he perhaps hadn't really appreciated much until now-and runs his hand across the cold, smooth leather. Sherlock's couch was always warm and soft in contrast.

John hadn't understood how much Sherlock had taken precedence over his life until this very moment when John realized it could all end very soon. He remembers his father's words the day he left for uni quite clear. "Don't worry too much about getting a girlfriend," he had said. "Most college relationships don't last for too long."

Was it so bad, though, that John liked to think he and Sherlock would last forever?

He exhales deeply and lies down on the couch, all the energy exhausted from his body, and closes his eyes. He's a medical student, for god's sakes, and that should be his top priority. He should be studying right now, semester break or not, not lazying around a dorm that didn't even feel like his.

Sleep, however, was a very good thing, and a thing that not many university students could take advantage of.

Unfortunately, just as he began to drift off into a peaceful slumber, the door burst open and John sat up straight in immediate reaction.

"Who the fuck-," John starts, but is interrupted by the sight of Sherlock standing there in the doorway, door swung wide open and the most apologetic face John had ever seen on the man.

Before Sherlock even steps into the room, he blurts out "I love you."

John's breath hitches.

"I love you, John," Sherlock repeats, stumbling into the room. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

"Sherlock," John breathes, scrambling to his feet and starting towards Sherlock. "Sherlock, stop."

But Sherlock doesn't stop. "I love you," he cries out. "I love you, I love you. I've loved you this whole time and I never told you but I've loved you and I still love you and I'll love you forever, John please, oh god I love you," and his legs give out and John reaches out to catch him and they go down together, knees to the floor and arms embracing each other in support.

"Sherlock-," John starts to say, but he is cut off.

"Don't leave me," Sherlock all but sobs, burying his face into the crevice of John's neck and tightening his arms around John's back. "Oh god, don't leave me. I'm sorry. I said it, okay? I said what you wanted me to say."

"I'm not leaving," John replies, stroking Sherlock's curly mess of hair tenderly. "They're just words. I was being a big baby. I was being drunk and foolish and I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pressured you to say that. That's all they are is words."

"They're not," Sherlock explains. "They're not just words. That's why I couldn't bring myself to say them. Because as soon as I said them, I feared that you and I would finally be bound forever and if you ever left me I'd never be able to recover. I kept silent to hold onto you," he cries out. "I'm a selfish man."

"Stop," John almost laughs. He then brings his hands to cup Sherlock's face and they face each other eye to eye. "Just stop. Stop talking. Nothing needs to be said ever again." He pulls Sherlock into him for a ferocious kiss, teeth practically smashing into each other violently.

When they need a breath, they pull away just far enough so that their foreheads still touch and Sherlock snakes his fingers around John's neck.

They smile at each other, their faces saying what their words never could, and for the rest of that night, not a word leaves either of their lips.

* * *

They spend the entire next day back at Sherlock's dorm- also known as home to John.

Peaceful and relaxed, they sit with the telly on mute, Sherlock's arm draped around John's shoulder as if protecting him, and John's head against Sherlock's chest, lazily drifting in and out of consciousness.

"Hey, Sherlock," John mumbles quietly.

"Hmm?" is Sherlock's response.

"I've been thinking for a long time, ever since those serial murders, and if you really want my opinion, I'd say you should change majors at this very instant and switch to forensics like Lestrade. I think you'd make a great detective."

Sherlock let out a small laugh. "Rudimentary. And dull. I only take cases that interest me."

John was silent for a while before he responded "well, maybe you could. You could be a…a police consultant or something. Or a detective. A detective consultant."

"A consulting detective," Sherlock pondered for a moment, letting the phrase slide off his tongue. "Yes, I think I like that idea."

* * *

**END**

* * *

**THANK YOU SO MUCH for all the favorites and reviews and everything. This is the longest piece I've done that I've actually finished and boy, sometimes it was a bit of a struggle to find motivation, but you guys and your encouragement really kept me going. This story was a journey for me, and I think I've learned quite a bit from it. For example, I've learned that it's not safe to save this on my school flashdrive, oops. But really, just thanks to everyone again.**


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